


Frost Flowers

by Aly_H



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Isabela and Zev are complicated, Let me know if more are needed, M/M, Might accidentally be a slow burn, Miscommunication, Soul Bond, There will be a happy ending, Voice Verse, more tags to come (probably), or maybe more like a medium burn?, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:11:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 75,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aly_H/pseuds/Aly_H
Summary: All mages are born with a soulmate--a voice they hear in the darkness of the Fade all their lives. The lucky ones find their soulmates and forge a bond strong enough to threaten the very foundations of the Chantry.A Surana/Zevran centric take on Khirsah's Voice-Verse.





	1. Falcon

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fire, Walk with Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/762011) by [Khirsah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah). 



> Hey!
> 
> I'd like to make sure I direct you to the work that inspired this one - [ Khirsah's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/works) ["Fire, Walk with Me"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/762011/chapters/1426056:>). Like seriously, go read all of their work. They're a brilliant writer and the way they write is really compelling. I am borrowing Khirsah's Voice-Verse concept for this story but I've changed enough of the pairings I plan on using that it won't be compliant with the FWWM canon.
> 
> Additionally there's another Dragon Age: Origins era piece based off of "Fire, Walk with Me" that you should definitely check out -["Part of Your World".](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9857108/chapters/22119260) It's a very sweet Alistair/Amell fic.
> 
>  
> 
> The rating is currently "M" but there is a very good chance that I'll have to bump it up to "E" before this is over. (Though as Zevran is involved who really expects anything different?)
> 
> I haven't attempted to write anything lengthier like this in a long time so I hope ya'll will be patient with me (and I hope I'll be patient with myself moving into this too).

The Fade had never been one of his favored places. The confusing clash of images and places and the knowledge that he had to be alert to demons made the idea of spending a great deal of time here unappealing.

Tonight though….felt...different. There was a smell of water and salt and old fish, and the usual sickly colored fog was solidifying itself into something else.

A dream. Something about it alien to him though.

It was not something he'd have expected the Fade might construct for him.

A vast water stretched out beyond the mouth of a bay as far as the horizon.

Was that the ocean?

It seemed so...big. It was a little intimidating for one that had grown up studying the shore of Lake Calenhad.

It was a new dream, often when the spirits came to him they reminded him of home - of the alienage, taking the forms of his uncle or cousins (or what he imagined them to look like it had been so long he wasn't sure if he could trust his memories of them) ...the less pleasant dreams replayed the fear in his sister’s eyes as she looked at him and the way she had pointed him put to the Templars. Most often, though, the dreams were of the Tower and the people there.

This was a place he had never seen, tall ships and a wooden wharf all strangely silent even for this time of night. Why strangely?

The moon overhead was bright and full making the scene before him easily visible as he cautiously turned - buildings clustered together, painted with bright plaster, signs in a language he didn’t know, a gull cried somewhere in the distance despite the hour - making him smile a little: they came to the Tower sometimes, fishing out of Lake Calenhad. He and Solona would sneak bread rolls out during outdoors time to feed them while they still had it.

The smile felt wrong for this dream and faded nearly as quick as it had appeared. This place was heavy, sad and lonely - and tonight those weren’t his feelings.

Not his feelings.

That realization struck like the lightning he was so fond of calling - fear and alertness shooting through him, he didn't think he felt any demons nearby but that was no guarantee. The Fade wasn’t twisting itself for him - this was someone else’s dream.

He’d been a mage for most his life, it had been impressed on him very young that one should not trespass into the dreams of others - and that it required wishing to do so.

Guilt pricked - was this Sol’s dream? Kirkwall had a harbor, but there were no imposing statues or chains like she had described of her home…

No. Not Solona’s.

He hadn't willed himself into this place either, it had pulled him in.

A part of him wished to linger - curious as to what this was about - but it wasn’t fair to whoever did own this dream. He focused on the Fade around him and...couldn’t leave or influence, right now he was...stuck?

It was like the Fade itself was insisting he stayed there...it didn't feel malevolent though. It felt lonely but also familiar, and it made his chest tighten the way it did when one of his friends was upset and the only comfort he could offer was to be there.

So he waited and watched.

One of the large masted ships was sailing out the bay, if he looked closely enough he could see the spirits who mimed the sailors moving about upon its deck.

Footsteps behind him made him turn - a man had come running to the end of the wharf on which Falcon stood, passing him by as if not seeing the mage.

He faltered, seeing the boat and stilled, watching it in silence, an expression on his face that betrayed his sorrow and lost - it was painful to look at and Falcon jerked his eyes away, feeling as if he had intruded into something private.

Which, in a way he had, but…

His eyes drew back up, “Is there anything I can do?”

The blond didn’t seem to notice him, his eyes staying on the vanishing ship before he sighed softly, looking down to the key in his hand, a sad smile tugging on his lips.

“Ah, what a fool am I,” he pulled his arm back and hurled the key across the waters, watching it drop into the inky blackness.

As the ripples faded, lost among the gentle swells of the calm waters, a note of pride entered his eyes - they were warm colored, brown mostly with touches of gold that Falcon knew he probably shouldn’t be able to see in the lighting. He gave a soft laugh, and smirked, “The seas won’t know what hit them, Bela.”

He ducked his head, as if embarrassed at being so sentimental even though as far as he was aware there was no one there to hear or see - and turned back towards the city, walking away almost too casually, like he was trying to tell himself that he really didn’t care.

Falcon jerked forward a step or two - he had to try to help even if he didn't know how - and then yelped as the world tilted and shifted and he opened his eyes as he thudded to the floor.

Jowan leaned over the edge of the top bunk to blink at him sleepily, “Aren’t you suppose to sleep on the bed?”

Across the darkened pathway between the apprentices’ beds Anders snorted with a short laugh. “You alright there, Falcon?”

The teen muttered to himself as he crawled back into bed, “Yeah, I’m fine.”


	2. Anders

He never quite understood why it was called ‘solo-study time’ when the studying wasn’t actually done alone. The apprentices were usually divided into groups based on their general ability level as well as how they got along with each other - three to four students per group - with an older apprentice a year or two away from their Harrowing (or less) supervising them.

Catching Karl’s eye he managed to make the other apprentice smile. Karl was supervising a group of youngsters, not more than seven or eight, which meant he didn’t have as much time to be bored as Anders did.

Really, it’d be a lot easier to find ways to have fun if it were solo. Though...that might be the point of it not being. Damnable Circle.

Anders had been given a trio of teens that while known for getting up to trouble if left to their own devices were fairly well-behaved by his standards (then again, how many escape attempts had he made prior to finding a reason to stay? At least until it was a better time.).

The oldest of the three was Jowan, a black haired boy who was clearly all lank and elbows. With luck he’d grow into himself and not remain ungainly forever. At fifteen he still had plenty of time to do so. While generally a good student his habit of taking short-cuts meant he seemed like he had less talent than the other two.

Fourteen year old Falcon was considered the most promising of the group. The slight elf with dark blue eyes had been apprenticed to Irving. He’d been in the tower almost as long as Jowan had and both had developed their powers young enough that life in the Circle was all they’d ever really know except for a handful of vague recollections regarding their families. It was a little heartbreaking to consider the two had been in the Circle longer than Anders himself even without his escape attempts.

Solona Amell was a more recent arrival, but she’d been taught a bit as an apostate prior to her ending up in Templar custody and brought to the Circle. Wynne had taken her on as the youngest of her apprentices. Like the two boys she had raven hair - a theme running with this trio - with dark brown eyes. The fourteen year old would likely develop into a talented healer with time.

Jowan and Solona had their heads bent over a text on spirit healing, whispering together about what they were reading. Falcon was sketching out a detailed scene, his brows furrowed in concentration. Something about the focus with which he was rendering the harbor was a little alarming.

“That’s Antiva isn’t it?” he asked conversationally, recognizing the bay out of a book he’d read.

Falcon’s hand jerked, leaving a dark line on the page after it.

“It’s a real place?” Something about that startlement didn't seem right.

Anders frowned, glancing to make sure no Templars were about or would take notice. The two other apprentices looked at their friend now. Solona’s brows drawn tight with worry as she watched frost climb up the quill. Jowan’s expression puzzled.

Falcon dropped it - knowing he’d be punished if caught freezing things, even accidentally - ice was the way his magic reacted to fear. Something about the question, had spooked the elf.

“Falcon, what’s wrong?” Anders gentled his voice - using the healer’s tone, the one he used when worried he’d spook an apprentice newly brought to the tower.

The youth’s jaw tightened a little, “I saw it in the Fade...I didn’t know it was real. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to go there.”

“An accident?” he prompted gently, knowing (mostly from experience) that Surana could make a Mabari seem downright reasonable when the mood took him. If he pried too much he’d never hear more about what was troubling the elf.

“The dream, it wasn't mine. But...it felt like I was supposed to be there. I didn't know how to leave.”

A dream that was not his that had pulled him?

Oh...oh. Flaming knicker-weasles.

Anders wasn't sure he was prepared to explain this to an apprentice for whom he couldn't help feeling downright brotherly.

He wasn't sure he was even equipped to try explaining this.

It was mostly luck that Falcon had done this without Lyrium. The good or the bad kind though was yet to be seen.

“Listen you three it's very important that you don't tell anyone about this,” he said trying to impress in his tone how serious it was. Running a hand over his hair he considered how to explain.

“There was someone else there, a dreamer who couldn't see you?”

Falcon nodded slowly, “An elf - he was...lonely. And sad. I...I felt like he was special.”

“He is. Falc, whatever else you're taught your Voice is special. Don't let them turn it into another thing to be afraid of.”

The Chantry taught them precious little about Voices in the Circle. When his dreams had begun he'd heard only half-whispered rumors of the unum vinctim of Tevinter. He'd feared what he might mean for the boy playing swords with his brother. He still did if he ever chose to find him.

Anders faltered, how to explain what that bond could be knowing that the boy would spend his life watching but unable to seek it. Or what if he was wrong and the romantic concepts of the Voice he’d heard were just fairy-stories told by mages trapped in the Circle for their entire lives, unable to seek any sort of permanent happiness in regards to either love or Voice?

“He is your...other half. You will always be drawn to him but, Falcon, it's important you stay away from him. If you don't and it's discovered…”

He trailed off, torn between wanting to make sure that the teens understood the dangers and wanting to try and be happy for Falcon like he might’ve were they not in the Circle.

The elf looked up to watch one of the Tranquil placing books back on the shelves.

At least he understood the stakes.

If only it didn't have to be that way. Mages didn't deserve to be trapped away from the one who called to them because of what they might do. It wasn't just.

“Thank you, Anders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the next chapter is mostly written but it's three in the morning and I need to get some sleep before I attempt to actually edit it for my terrible grammar. (I say like editing will make a difference, I sold my soul to the Goddess of Asides and Commas and Entirely Unnecessary Italics long ago.)


	3. Solona

“It’s cold,” she grumbled, poking Jowan into scooting over a bit so she could burrow under the blanket with him.

Falcon gave a soft laugh - despite all these years in Ferelden Solona was still a Marcher at heart, or at least she’d never quite acclimatized to Ferelden weather for which ‘cold’ and ‘damp’ were good descriptors even inside a Tevinter-built tower that was soaked with magical energies from years of occupation by mages.

She scowled at him a bit for that: “Don’t laugh. You don’t _get_ cold.”

Jowan snuffled his agreement, and pulled Falcon’s abandoned blanket over the two of their shoulders in addition.

It was a bad winter, everyone knew it too. Supplies were tight across the kingdom, and the Circle was no different.

Rules regarding who slept where had been relaxed, herding the apprentices into one room to save on heating. A Templar stood on duty full time, and most of the older apprentices - this trio included - had given much of their warm portion of their meals to younger children, wanting to make sure the lack of supplies wouldn’t affect their growth until a new shipment of supplies could come across the lake.

Falcon laughed in response, flexing his fingers the way he did when he itched to cast a spell but the rules forbade it.

They were seventeen (well she was and Falcon was very nearly there, while Jowan was eighteen) and it would probably not be long until any of them were put through the Harrowing. Especially with the way the Senior Enchanters were watching their group - she suspected that one of them would be called for it soon.

Bored, she lowered her voice to a whisper, “What’re you reading, Falcon?”

“It’s a story about Garahel and the end of the Fourth Blight.”

“Wardens? I thought you didn’t like hero-stories” Jowan asked, his cold making his voice even more reedy than usual.

Falcon gave a little shrug, “I was bored and Sol left it in reach. Not like I can just go to the library to get a new one right now.”

Solona - who _did_ prefer hero stories - stuck her tongue out at him. “Aren’t dashing Antivan rogues more your thing anyways, Falc?”

He colored then scowled a bit, ducking back behind the book with a rebellious mutter.

She’d always felt a little sorry for Falcon. Voices were meant to be your perfect partner, the other half of your soul and you couldn't really help falling for them- she certainly had never expected to love deeply as she did for _hers_ even with all the idle romantic fantasies she had dreamt up between learning about the whole concept and actually meeting the mage apprentice of the Valo-kas mercenaries in the Fade.

For her Issala was a friend, a companion during the night. She’d been a source of comfort and had taught her (and the other two through her) about a lot of what the Chantry and Circle forbade them to learn.

Even with the prophecies of heartbreak that surrounded mages who found one another in the Fade she had never felt more at home than sitting beside the tall Vashoth girl and listening to her stories of the Free Marches and Nevarra and Orlais.

For Falcon though his Voice was a point of heartache as well as longing - his dashing rogue was in love with someone else.

“I saw mine,” Jowan murmured.

“You didn't say,” Falcon said edging closer - a note of accusation in his voice. Jowan had been acting strangely recently but had refused to tell either of them what was wrong.

“I'm telling you now,” he replied grumpily.

“What're they like? Are they a girl? A boy? Human?” Solana's eyes lit up with her excitement. “Do you know where they live? What they do?”

Jowan grumbled incoherently about “one question” before seizing the moment that she paused for breath to answer a few of the barrage:

“She’s beautiful and she's human but I don't know a lot yet. I didn't find her long ago.”

“Do you like her?” Solona asked.

“I-” Jowan paused - struggling to find the words. They all understood the silence: being drawn to someone on that level as everything you were wanted to devote yourself to them.

Falcon reached over to pat Jowan’s knee in a comforting manner but it also drew their attention to his expression and where his eyes were - a deep frown beginning as he spotted the approaching Templar before she could hear the clink of the armored footsteps behind her.

She put on one of her friendliest (what Falcon routinely referred to as her) “Orlesian tea” smiles still ingrained in her from her nearly forgotten life at Kirkwall.

“What're you lot whispering about?” the scowling man demanded - not one of the ones she knew by name.

“Jowan has a cold,” she replied gesturing to her friend. “We were just trying to figure out if we should bother Enchanter Wynne or not to help it. I have a bit of elfroot tucked away for, uh,” she dropped her voice, an embarrassed hush coming over it, and let her cheeks color deeply, “- _‘lady problems_ ’. I was offering to get him some for the aches. I'm sorry Serah, I know it's against the rules to give other apprentices herbs without the Enchanters’ permission but I was just trying to help my friend.”

The Templar shifted, it was hard for most of them to stay surly when Solona turned on the charms - the perfect picture of a proper lady in all aspects but her magic.

“Well...you know the rules so no breaking them - you hear? And don't whisper like that. It looks suspicious. If I see Senior Enchanter Wynne I'll tell her about your friend.”

They waited until he had departed - a loud, entirely coincidental, sneeze from Jowan following after the knight - before any of them spoke again.

“That was unusually reasonable,” Falcon grumbled, his shoulders still tense as his gaze followed the Templar’s movements away from them.

“Well, it does help when you don’t glower like you’re trying to put a Hex on them, Falc.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey - just wanted to draw ya'll's attention to a change in the tags. There will be at least one Major Character Death (as in one is already planned), and I just wanted to give ya'll a fair warning about it.


	4. Falcon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, this chapter got dark.
> 
> If there are any trigger warnings that I miss in my list below that would've helped you PLEASE let me know. I want reading to be a safe and enjoyable experience for everyone but the characters. That actually goes for all my stories so please never hesitate to speak up regarding anything.
> 
> **TW's:** Blood, Death, Serious Injury, Self-Harm (sorta), Suicidal Thoughts

There was something wrong in the Fade - it was...angry, hateful, bitter - and he nearly choked on the air turned acidic by the influence the dream’s owner’s state of mind had on the nearby spirits as he fell into the dream.

Shadows with the faces of the dead screamed soundlessly as he fought back the urge to flee.

He recognized some from past dreams. This one was killed because his son wanted the business, that one was a bastard, this one scorned the wrong woman.

The Crows had come and death “happened” to them all.

His Voice had come for them all.

Falcon shuddered - the desire to flee battling with the need to know what had happened - to try to do something, anything to help with this pain.

The mage steadied himself, closing his eyes as he sucked a deep breath in of the sour tasting air and held it to put his mind in order:

He buried the jealousy he harbored towards those the assassin did know and love, the anger at the Chantry for the Circle prisons, the fear that one day he might lose the Voice he'd never really met, the resentment at Solona and Jowan who could talk with their Voices and for whom the Fade in their dreams was a happier place.

Slowly exhaling he reopened his eyes and began to move forward once again in search of the assassin he knew had to be _somewhere_ in this dream.

“Zevran?” he called moving carefully through the silently writhing shades. (Falcon really hoped three were no _real_ shades lingering amongst the projections of the dead.) He knew he would go unheard and unanswered but it made him feel better - less useless anyways - to call out.

When he found his Voice in the dream in the center of a ringed clearing amongst the dead shadows the other elf in a bad state.

Or rather he found all of them bad states – his heart lurching painfully as he spotted them.

One lay dead and sightlessly peering at the distant grey-green sky, his throat cut while the elf-blooded woman Rinna that Falcon had seen so often in happier dreams held a bloody blade above him.

Another “dead” version of his Voice collapsed to the ground, Taliesin’s knife buried in his back. An expression of surprise crossed his features as he fell.

A shot of panic shot through him but the third of the figures that resembled his Voice appeared unharmed and it was to that one that the instinctual tug of his magic pulled.

The real Zevran knelt in the open space between, covered thickly enough in blood it would have been impossible to tell his hair was blond or even what his skin color was as it stuck to him without the prior knowledge of what the elf looked like when clean.

He was holding something close to his chest though at this angle he couldn’t tell what, only see the bloody blade discarded beside the Crow.

Despite everything he hesitated – the murderous iterations of Zevran’s lovers making him nervous – but he crossed to Zevran.

In his arms the assassin clutched Rinna to his chest, a whispered apology pressed into her hair as tears trickled down his face to fall into the dark locks.

As he reached towards the other elf in the instinctual urge to place a hand on his shoulder – to let him know he wasn’t alone with his grief - the Fade shifted.

There was a twisting sort of plunge as the dreamscape shifted beneath and around them and Falcon was knocked off his feet – had the situation been less serious he might’ve taken the time to voice his displeasure at the way changes in scenery worked in a dream. Maker, he hated the Fade.

Now they were in some kind of safe house. He recognized the kind of place it was from other dreams he’d peaked in on – somewhere that Zevran and Rinna and Taliesin could be confident in their relative safety while they plotted how to strike at their contract.

Rinna was on her knees begging in Antivan, her teary gaze locked on Zevran who was still despondent and soaked in blood. Taliesin snarled something in the language at the woman, death in his eyes.

It was not until Taliesin had dragged the woman’s head back and placed his blade at her throat that Zevran began to move though.

A croaked “No” broke from his lips as he jerked to his feet, moving to stop Taliesin. To save the woman he loved. But it was too late, Rinna’s throat was cut and she fell lifelessly to the floor as blood splattered fresh gore onto the blond Crow.

For a moment there was complete silence as Zevran stood above the new corpse, pain and guilt twisting his expression for only an instant before it went still.

The tenseness in his shoulders was the only give away that it was an act – a lie – as he looked to Taliesin and smiled coldly. “Good riddance, no?”

At the words a thunderous sound filled the room as the walls surrounding them shook then fell away leaving only the floor suspended in a black abyss upon which he, Zevran and Rinna’s corpse remained.

The proud, murderous Taliesin vanishing mysteriously - likely as a byproduct of dream logic.

A black wave of a hundred thousand birds swept up on all sides from the abyss, their cawing deafening as they swelled blotting out the sky. Upwards and upwards they surged, and then they turned back down sweeping into a dive towards their center towards-

“No!” it was instinctual that the shield leapt up around them. Falcon took a second to realize he’d even cried out.

The birds shot apart instead of striking the magical barrier, breaking like a wave over rocks around them and vanishing.

The assassin stared wide eyed at the shield, surprise registering even in the chaotic grief-riddled dream world. Shields did not just appear between one and murderous flocks of birds, and he certainly had no means of producing it -

Falcon lowered his arms, trembling with the effort of maintaining a spell he was not very good at anyways. His eyes locked on Zevran, hoping this was the end of the nightmare for his Voice and that he would wake soon.

Cold fingers gripped around his throat, and he was dragged a step back, then two.

**_Sweet little mage,_** the voice hissed through his mind as he struggled to breathe. **_There's nothing you can do. Poor little bird trapped in your cage._**

Falcon fought trying to pull himself free of the grasp as a chill colder than any ice spell he could cast was seeping through his body and mind.

**_Will you still sing with your Voice missing?_ **

Despair. It was a demon, it had to be. Drawn by Zevran’s emotions to feed on scraps only to find that a mage had wandered in.

**_You feel it don't you? - he WANTS to die._ **

It was the truth. That Falcon couldn’t deny. He _could_ sense that his Voice wanted to die and it felt like pieces of glass pressed against his heart. Zevran lived a dangerous life, without the will to survive he would die quickly.

Demons didn’t lie – why should they when the truth could be twisted into a far more powerful – a more cruel – sort of cage with which to trap mortals.

**_He will never know your name. He will never know you even exist._ **

Falcon struggled to maintain his focus and not give into his own thoughts given form by this demon that dragged him further and further from his Voice.

**_Give into despair, darling mage_**.

He wouldn't be able to break the demon's physical grip on him and he could already feel his head going light as his body reacted to the idea he couldn't breathe rather than the physical reality.

**_You cannot-_ **

Lifting his hand up over his shoulder he unleashed a ‘Shock’ spell with as much force as he could, crying out as the spell caught him as well, even as the demon was destroyed and he fell from the Fade to the space between the waking world and that of dreams and nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, ya'll!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


	5. Jowan

The Chantry was rarely completely silent but it was quieter than the dorms and he couldn’t stand the idea of being in the library. Not today, not alone. And anywhere else he could think of going he would have been tasked with helping to watch the younger apprentices or given some task to keep him busy and his mind off what had happened by some well-meaning Enchanter.

He shuddered at the memory - his eyes looking up to the stone ones of impassive Andraste who watched over the Chantry pews.

Jowan had been wrapped up in one of his Voice’s dreams: in a simple cottage on some small farm, watching his Voice dream about baking bread and managing the small affair without the rules of the Chantry or the restrictions of duty to stop her. Lily had been wearing a simple dress and humming softly to herself while she worked.

It was one of his favorite dreams to watch.

He could sit at the table and pretend that it was his dream too. That they were really in a small cottage far away from any Circle or Chantry where they could live their own lives, free of any magic and this wasn’t just a Fade-dream.

And then a scream in the waking world had yanked out of the pleasant dreams and to alertness.

His eyes flying open to find a Templar standing beside the bed with his attention on the bunk below, his hands were bloody, and he was shouting for an Enchanter to hurry. The scent of lightning and burned flesh (like the time Falcon had lost control of a spell and accidentally singed his arm but much, much stronger) was in the air and some of the younger boys were starting to cry.

Jowan vaulted out of bed opposite the side the Templar was on to see the source of the blood.

Falcon had lain curled in on himself his back cracked and bloody - a burn pattern like he’d hit himself with a lightning spell from over his shoulder. Around his friend’s neck had been the beginnings of a bruise with frost still glistening around the edges of the bony fingermarks.

Oh, Maker, he still felt like he could smell it the blood -

“Are you alright?” the voice startled him.

His gaze jerked away from Andraste and he looked right into her eyes - _Oh, Maker was she beautiful._ His heart skipped a beat, his thoughts snuffed out with the simple realization of how gorgeous her eyes were.

“I, uh…” he stuttered.

“It’s alright to be upset,” she smiled a little and sat down next to him a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Your friend was the one who was hurt this morning isn’t he?”

Guilt pricked him immediately - his brain was too busy being overwhelmed by the fact that they were touching. She was right _there_ and it felt so right, and perfect. And Falcon was laying in the infirmary, badly hurt, and under Templar guard - Templars who at a single word from the Knight-Commander end his friend’s - his _brother’s_ \- life.

Maker, what an utter ass he was. He wished Solona were up.

He could sit with her and be miserable and worried and not feel so damn happy because the most beautiful woman in the world was talking to him. (Not that Sol wasn’t pretty - and he could practically picture the horned terror that was Sol’s Voice crossing the Waking Sea just to lecture him if he ever implied otherwise where she could hear - but she was practically his sister.)

“Yeah - Fa- I mean Alim, yes,” he nodded, probably a little too quickly. “They’ve not really said anything since they took him to the infirmary.”

One of the Sisters was an ancient woman who insisted they use the names under which their parents had had them blessed or she would make the nickname-culprits recite versus of the Chant at random. It was always strange to use ‘Alim’ in reference to his friend rather than the nickname based on the bird-shaped pendant he wore under his shirt.

(Not that most of the people in the Tower knew the nickname was from the pendant, most people weren’t even aware the necklace existed.)

She glanced at the doorway to the rest of the Circle, “I’ve seen him waiting for you in the hall sometimes, he doesn’t like to come in but you come here a lot, don’t you?”

Jowan hesitated - should he admit he was coming in to see her? Wait, she’d really noticed him? That was...amazing but something to be thought about later. Now he was supposed to be brooding and praying for his friend.

“Being here helps me feel more certain, like maybe things can work out after all - even for someone like me.”

She smiled, “I’m sure the Maker will look after him.”

He couldn’t help it, his chest feeling tight and warm at the same time seeing that expression, he smiled back, “I hope so.”

“Sister, I need your help!” one of the others called.

She turned her head, “A moment please!” To Jowan she added, apologetically: “I have to go now - I’ll prayer for your friend.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, quietly watching her go.

He felt another stab of guilt and shame prick beneath his heart: A year after Falcon had discovered the Antivan rogue, another mage had found Solona in her dreams.

In stolen, whispered conversations she’d happily told them about Issala. How the mage had heard Solona while searching for her _Ashasala_ \- “The Soul that Seeks” - in the Fade and that while she had been surprised to find another mage that Issala’s Voice, had been Solona.

It had been easy to see the light in her eyes as Solona talked and in the way she carefully practiced the foreign sounding phrases she’d been taught that she loved her Issala dearly. And even with all the pain that Falcon’s Voice put him through he’d been able to see in the stupidly happy little grin he wore when he sketched some bit of the Antivan countryside or city that he was halfway in love too.

He wasn’t as good a mage as they were, he wasn’t as well liked by the Enchanters, and it had seemed like the Maker hadn’t even cared enough to give him another half, to let him have even the potential at being whole.

He’d felt so alone for so long when he’d been offered a way to be a better mage, to have the power to look for his Voice in the Fade he had seized upon it.

Blood magic.

It’d felt wrong when he used it, like bugs crawling beneath his skin but he’d found Lily in the Fade using its power.

The whole thing had felt even more foolish when he realized that not even two weeks after he’d finally found her in his dreams she was in his life.

That was him though: the stupid one.

He’d never touch the stuff again - if he had Lily, if he could be near her then he was okay being a second-rate mage stuck in their shadows. He’d even be happy because his Lily was there. Even if she was sworn to the Maker and he probably shouldn’t be hoping that she fell in love with him back he would be happy with his life.

It wasn’t a farm cottage where they could live in peaceful bliss but...it would have to do, wouldn’t it?

He left the Chantry to find Solona.

She was sitting at their usual table in the library, the one where no one bothered to clean up the small mountain of books she and Falcon were studying at any given time. Falcon’s sketchbook beneath her hand though she’d left it closed, fingers resting against the cover. The elf used a particular knot to tie the leather bound book shut again every time.

Sol could tie it back if she really wanted to but she also wouldn’t intrude on his privacy.

The young woman looked lost and sad. Her long black braid hung over her shoulder, her gentle brown eyes cast on the books cover, her fingers tracing the subtle nicks and dents that the volume had acquired since Falcon had gotten it as a Satinalia gift from Irving.

Most the pages were still empty in that one anyways, if Jowan remembered correctly.

Bringing his eyes up from the book he studied Solona instead. She looked exhausted and drawn – her Harrowing had been the night before and he had little doubt that the moment she was on her feet and steady enough to walk without staggering she’d gone to find Falcon after hearing what had happened.

She looked up to Jowan and gave a tiny smile.

“Senior Enchanter Wynne let me see him - I know it probably looked really bad but he’s going to heal. There will be scars.”

“That’s a relief,” he smiled, sitting down. “So he’s going to be alright?”

Solona frowned, not saying anything or meeting her friend’s eye. At last she answered:

“I don’t know...the Templars.”

After a moment’s hesitation she drew something out of her pocket and passed it over to him.

The jet pendent carved like a bird of prey in a style distinctly Dalish (well Finn had once explained that it was _actually_ a style from the Emerald Knights of the Dales not the Dalish). Falcon always wore it – it was the only thing he had from his family.

“I took it from his things in the infirmary. I didn’t want it getting lost,” she explained. “Or the Templars stealing it. You should hold onto it for him.”

He hesitated – he didn’t deserve this kind of trust from his friends. Not about something so important to them. He took it up though, carefully putting it on and sliding it beneath his shirt and out of view.

As soon as Falcon was awake he’d give it back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head "Ashasala", from the Qunlat Ash - "to seek" and asala - "soul" to roughly mean "The Soul that Seeks", is the word that the Vashoth mages use for their Voices.  
> I doubt that there IS a word for Voices among the Qunari given the extreme measures which they take to control the saarebas. Or if there is one its less poetic sounding.
> 
>  
> 
> I just wanted to take a moment to say: Ya'll are awesome.
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> Edit: So while making good decisions in a sleep deprived state I had posted a chapter from the Irving perspective. It was clunky and weird so I have now deleted it after rereading everything with a slightly more functional brain. So thats why there had been a chapter 6 but is no longer. Thank you for your patience.


	6. Falcon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! The real chapter 6!
> 
> Sorry for the other one that was posted before - I removed it because I felt like it didn't fit well. I was exhausted when I wrote it so I'm blaming my sleep deprived self for that one. This one was written while I was (mostly) rested and isn't nearly as terrible.

Solona was careful as she hugged him tight - she knew where the newly-healed but still very tender injuries on his back were, probably even better than he did, having spent much of her last weeks in the Tower tending to them.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said, tears glittering at the corners of her eyes.

Her long black hair was braided and curled into a bun at the back of her head, she was taller than him now too, not by much but enough that she had to tilt her head down to rest her forehead against his.

He smiled knowing that if he did anything else she _would_ cry and it felt like enough heartbreak just to have to say goodbye to her, “You’ll do great, Sol. I know you will.”

“It’s just not _fair_ ,” she said quietly - the fierceness not about her having to leave the home she’d known for so long but the knowledge that that day Falcon would also begin his time in the cells. The threat of infection no longer something Senior Enchanter Wynne could use to prevent them moving him out of the infirmary.

He squeezed her hand and smiled a bit, “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

She fixed him with a look he couldn’t quite place, but she nodded, “I know you will, Falc, but it’s still not fair.”

“Just look after yourself, Denerim’s not the nicest city, you know?”

She choked on a laugh, and tried to give him a grin - the one that she used when promising trouble or they had decided on a prank. It wavered a little though, the threat of tears still present: “I’m a Kirkwaller, remember? I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, that’s what I’m afraid of,” he smiled back, determined not to have her worry as she left for her new life.

Metal-clad footsteps announced the arrival of a Templar. At least it was Cullen, he wasn’t one to give them trouble over showing emotions. And the fact that he fancied Solona meant the poor man was looking a bit like a kicked puppy himself anyways.

“Uh, Mistress Amell, I was sent to fetch you. Sers Trevelyan and Vallen will be escorting you to the Capital. They’re ready to leave now.”

Falcon relaxed a little. The Templars escorting her were the good sorts (even if Vallen was a bit of a stick in the mud). She’d be safe with them and they’d keep her safe for as long as they traveled with her.

She squeezed his hand again before she followed Cullen out.

Falcon closed his eyes once she was gone, fighting back tears.

He was going to miss her, didn’t matter how many letters they wrote they’d probably never live in the same Circle at the same time again. The comfort that the position in Denerim was a good one was little solace right now when it felt like he was losing another sister.

Not that he had long for his thoughts - Irving appeared at the door shortly after and beckoned him to follow, leading him down the steps towards the cells at the old man’s usual shuffling pace. For once Falcon was grateful for it rather than impatient as he had so often been in the past - the longer they took to reach the cells was the longer that he wasn’t _in_ one.

Irving paused and looked at him, brows raised expectantly, as he waited for an answer to some question that had been asked.

“Uh,” he hesitated. “I'm sorry, First Enchanter. I didn't hear that.”

“While I do not suggest it - the Rite of Tranquility will stay an option if you do not wish to continue the imprisonment in a cell.”

He swallowed - _oh_ … “Yes, Enchanter, I understand.”

Irving patted his uninjured shoulder affectionately. Like a father, almost.

Falcon could barely even remember his uncle, and his father? He only remembered some of what he’d been told about the man, no real memories of his own. Complaints about a dark haired apostate with strange tattoos had been common enough to overhear from his Uncle though Auntie Adaia had always told him not to complain where he could be over heard – that it wasn’t his father’s fault that he was missing from their lives.

He had to wonder if the sense of betrayal would sting nearly as much if Irving wasn't the closest thing to a father he knew.

Logically he knew why this was happening - it would be hard to grow up in a Circle without understanding that maintaining peace was a delicate balancing act involving placating and compromising with their armor clad jailers.

Logic, however, could do little to soothe the hurt.

The cells were in one of the lowest levels of the Tower, one of those carved into the bedrock of the island itself. The heavy scent of damp permeated the air – stifling as soon as they entered the floor.

The cells themselves were cut out of the stone with metal grating at the front. There were three on each side of this hall, most were empty. Enchantments for light were set in the ceiling and walls, giving the corridor a faintly green glow that reminded Falcon eerily of the Fade. A sensation not aided by the fact that here one could sense the centuries of magic that had seeped into the stone from magical activities that ranged from ancient Tevinter blood rituals to the Circle’s mere proximity.

Falcon knew the last cell - the one beside where he was gestured to enter - would hold Anders, who was still suffering the Templars’ wrath for his last escape attempt since they'd dragged him back three months before. Most Templars didn't capture their quarry alive, there'd always been little use for the ‘observation cells’.

For Falcon they would be meant as a test – to see if he needed to be destroyed or not – for Anders they were meant as a punishment.

The door to the cell slammed shut behind him, close enough he flinched from it.

He ignored the departing First Enchanter and the guards, trying to focus on not panicking. Feeling trapped by the Tower itself was difficult enough - could he really stand being in this cage for so long?

Sitting down on the narrow cot he leaned back against a wall to hiss softly as pain flared through the sensitive parts of his back.

A voice rusty from disuse came from the cell next door once the Templars had cleared out, “So, friend, what’d you do to piss them off so bad?”

“Fought a demon off when it grabbed me in the Fade.”

There was a shuffling sound, it sounded like Anders had gotten up and was walking to the wall the cell shared. “ _Falcon_? Is that you?”

“Hope I’m not disappointing you too by ending up here.”

“What? No. Of course not just...why are you of all people down here. You called a demon to yourself? I could believe it if it was Jowan but _you_?”

“Jowan is a better mage than everyone gives him credit for,” Falcon huffed defensively of his friend.

“Oh, right, yes, of course he is, but he’s always had more doubts than you. Magic never scared you, but your problem solving abilities have always seemed to amount to hitting something with enough force it cracks.”

He wanted to protest the bit about his approach to problems but he _had_ always been better at the application of brute force via magic than any sort of finesse. And if he was capable of finesse the demon’s attack might not have ended with him injuring himself so badly.

“Why are you down here? You said you fought the demon. You defeated it, didn’t you?”

He debated being honest, but honesty now had no point - it would simply worry Anders if he knew how badly he’d been hurt after the incident and the other mage had been down here by himself for so long, he didn’t need that worry: “I did, but you know how paranoid Templars are. But, Anders - did you find him?”

Anders stopped and gave a short bark of laughter - it wasn’t the nice kind, “Nearly. I think I saw him even, in the crowd watching. The bloody Templars in Lothering were looking for some other mage - a Chasnid witch, or something - and they found me instead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said - to be so close and then to have the chance at meeting his Voice snatched away that was terrible.

Anders made another sound, still too harsh and ragged to be called a real laugh, “He’s joined the army. He’s so desperate to be someone on his own merit, he doesn’t understand he already _is_. But...he’s smarter and stronger than he thinks. He’ll be okay. Ferelden isn’t at war, he’s going to be okay.”

“Anders -” Falcon had a feeling that not even half the words had been addressed to himself – the other more used to talking to the empty air and himself.

“It’s okay.” It sounded like the Spirit-healer was pacing again, “He wouldn’t have wanted to meet me anyways. I don’t think he’d be happy with another mage in his life, or with being someone’s Voice. He hates the Voices for what it’s done to his brother and mother, he hates magic for how his family keeps being hurt...he wouldn’t want me.”

“ _Anders_ ,” he walked to the bars, leaning against them. “You can’t just decide that without giving him a chance - you don’t know he’d reject you.”

He was a hypocrite to say it and Falcon knew it but he’d also understood very early on that Zevran Arainai of the Crows would want nothing to do with him or the Voice business.

The idea of being vulnerable to someone, to having someone know so much about him, would only alarm the assassin - and probably end in a death by poisoned dagger for Falcon.

But Anders had always held out hope that one day, if he could just get free of the Circle for good, he’d be able to meet Carver. That things might work out. Or at least he’d always _said_ he had, and it was frightening to hear the doubts in the older mage’s voice.

The pacing stopped. “The demon - it wasn’t called to _you_ was it?”

Falcon grimaced - no one could claim Anders was an idiot for all he could be rather impulsive. “No, it wasn’t.”

“What was it? Desire?”

“Despair.”

Anders approached the bars leaning against them, Despair was not an easy thing to hold off, they were powerful demons and there was little in a mage’s life that gave them the strength to disagree with what such a demon could say. The silence stretched but Falcon understood the unspoken question in it well enough.

Were it anyone else he might not have answered, but even if he had been more distant since Karl’s transfer and his escape attempts meant they rarely saw him and he wasn’t allowed around the apprentices as often – there were fears he might be a negative influence on their behavior – he was still someone Falcon trusted.

“He murdered the woman he loved, or he helped do it, or he watched it happen and did nothing,” Falcon said at last. “And...I don’t think he’s going to survive losing her.”

Anders was quiet for a long time after that - “I’m sorry. This isn’t how the Voices are supposed to be. It’s supposed to be a _happy_ thing - to help. To make the world be less lonely not more. It’s not fair.”

“Since when is anything fair for a mage?” he snorted, the words coming out before he could catch them. He might have believed them but they weren’t the sort he wanted to give sound to.

Anders sounded tired and worn down: “It _should_ be. It shouldn’t be like this. How could the Maker have made a world this cruel?”

Falcon didn’t answer this time - if the Maker existed He clearly didn’t care enough to interfere with the world he had created, however the world had been intended to be it was people who had made it what it was.

Instead he told Anders about what had happened in the Tower since his imprisonment, about Jowan’s Voice, and about Solona’s departure.

They would have a long time with just each other’s company, theological debates were not the way to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random side note: The hurt that Anders refers to with Carver's brother is a direct nod to Khirsah's take on Fenris/Hawke even though I switched which twin is Anders' Voice.


	7. Jowan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya, quick (and last) reminder that the original Chapter 6 that was published was deleted and replaced with an entirely different chapter.

Lily sat down next to him - he’d been coming to the Chantry a lot since Falcon had been imprisoned and Solona sent to Denerim – so it wasn’t unusual for him to be there. (Even if his Voice hadn’t been there he probably would have found his way into the Chantry anyways.)

Being faithful and a mage had always made him feel a little eccentric compared to his peers. Or at least the company in his age group made him feel a little like it was. Keili was the only one who was very obvious about her devotion and she took it to a worrying extreme: she’d manifested her powers later than most mages and so the discovery that she was a mage had been a shock. (At least he hoped that was why she always seemed so broken and guilty about it and as her magic leaned heavily towards the school of Entropy he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know the ‘why’.)

Who he had as friends did little to help the feeling - Falcon didn’t keep his dislike of the Chantry a secret and he knew that if Falcon believed in the Maker it was not with any fondness, while Solona had claimed to neither believe nor disbelieve.

He’d asked her once and she’d just commented about how it was silly for her to decide until she saw all the evidence. When he’d pointed out that one only saw the Maker when you died she’d told him “Well, I’ll let you know after then” as she’d kept her eyes locked on the vial she was measuring some sort of alchemical solution into for one of her potions.

For himself there was something comforting about the Chant when those delivering it weren’t over-emphasizing the part about magic being meant to serve man and never rule over him. Reminders that they lived their entire lives by the pleasure of the Chantry were never very comforting even before he’d learned of Voices and that the Chantry would do anything to keep him from knowing his Lily.

Prior to learning he might have been willing to serve as a good mage, a loyal, _faithful_ mage.

Now he couldn’t help but feel some resentment towards the Chantry.

Now...he just wanted a simple life.

One where his friends didn’t get sent away with little notice or imprisoned for things not their fault. Where he could farm or bake bread or something like that and bring flowers to Lily to make her smile instead of helping her light the candles on the altars with his magic.

“You’ve got that look again,” she teased, reaching over to brush some of his hair back behind his ear. “Is something wrong? I thought you’d be happy today.”

His brows furrowed a little, what was so important about today that he’d be happy? He hadn’t thought the somewhat pensive expression he had doubtlessly been wearing was all that unusual.

“I _am_ happy - I get to see you today, after all.”

She blushed and smiled, and looked away - he loved making her smile like that. She was the most beautiful woman in the world when she did, and he wanted to make sure she knew it. She felt happier when he did - not that he was sure whether that was wishful thinking or their bond.

“Oh, hush. I was being serious, Jowan.”

“So was I.”

Her blush deepened a few shades and he felt his heart race a little but she didn’t continue their flirting and instead she pushed on to explaining what she had meant about her earlier statement:

“I overheard the Templars earlier - they said they’re going to let your friend out of the cells today. I thought you’d be waiting to see him again. I know he’s not going to come here.”

Jowan’s eyes widened with surprise - Falcon was being released today? He leaned forward, pecking her on the cheek and jumped up off the pew, hurrying for the door.

“I’ll be back later!” he called, rushing out to track down Falcon.

Tower gossip, at least, was great for tracking someone down when one took the time to _talk_ to one’s fellow mages instead of sulking almost exclusively in the Chantry.

Falcon had gone from the cells to the baths and once he’d cleaned up had been conducted up to the First Enchanter’s office. Jowan was waiting outside said office when the elf walked out, looking distracted.

Enthusiastically he took a few steps forward, going to go for a hug but Falcon jumped spotting him and took a step back - startled by the sudden movement. Jowan hesitated, unsure what to do, his arms spread wide for the hug lowering back to his side.

“Jowan! Sorry,” his friend’s voice was softer than before, and there was notes of guilt to it that he wished he knew how to address - it wasn’t his fault that he’d been surprised. After months in a cell how else was he going to respond to such an exuberant greeting.

Falcon stepped forward and gave him a quick - tight hug which Jowan returned.

The elf’s shoulders felt thinner than before and he was fairly certain that wasn’t his imagination. Not that Falcon had ever been particularly well built - he was slight even by elven standards but it’d been years since he’d thought of his friend as bony.

His hair was still slightly damp - unusual since Falcon was infamous for impatiently using magic to speed up the process. (The elf had grown his hair out nearly as long as Solona’s before an incident where he’d accidentally set the end on fire and then he’d worn it cut just below his shoulders since.) Now it was cut to chin height, a braid done up and tucked behind his ear.

“It’s good to see you,” Jowan smiled stepping back to give his friend space as soon as Falcon had loosened the hug. “Are you - I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he smiled, though the expression faded and he tensed the sound of a practical spell class causing an explosive sound to echo down the hall.

It’d be hard to tell but he could see the glimmer of ice across the cuff of his friend’s robe.

It reminded him too much of all those years ago when Falcon had first arrived at the Tower. The Enchanters liked to fondly remember the fight he’d put up over most everything but Jowan remembered the tired, scared boy that had come later. The one that jumped at everything - that kept his back to the wall so no one could sneak up on him, the one that stole extra food when no one was looking and stashed it around the Circle - again when he thought no one was watching.

This wasn’t the Falcon he’d known when he’d fallen asleep that night nearly half a year ago after they’d spent the last hours of their evening discussing the finer points as to if pulling a prank on Solona was worth it and what sort of prank to pull if it was.

But this wasn’t a Falcon stripped of his emotions and his free will either.

He wasn’t entirely sure who this Falcon was but they had to be better than a Tranquil. The Tranquil couldn’t be helped – they were lost to those who cared about them forever, meant to live on as shadows of their former selves. Falcon at least he could help – or try to, anyways.

Jowan wished bitterly that Solona was still at the Tower. She would know what to do and say to help, she always did.

Hopefully he’d be enough get his old friend back, to help him heal. He’d have to be, wouldn’t he? Maybe Lily would know some way to help - she was better with people than he’d ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd this is the last of our pre-game chapters. We should start seeing more canon material next chapter.


	8. Falcon

So this was the Harrowing.

He narrowed his eyes at the Fade in annoyance. Being here ‘awake’ was only slightly less disorienting than when he dreamt.

He’d always thoroughly hated the shifting woozy colored fog that caught at the edges of his awareness and the way that beyond his immediate surroundings the Fade shifted and rolled, changing and reshaping itself in nonsensical ways. Falcon was certain that you couldn’t get motion sick in the world of dreams but it was a close thing.

By the end of this he was going to have a headache, hopefully it wouldn’t carry over to the waking world. With his luck though.

He was also completely aware that his focus on being annoyed by the nature of the raw Fade had far more to do with ignoring the prickle of icy fear that had set in between his shoulder blades since he had been told he would face a demon, unarmed, during the Harrowing than it had to do with anything else. Being annoyed with the Fade for being the Fade was easier than trying to work address the tangle of fear in his gut.

He had nearly died the last time he faced a demon.

Not exactly an easy thing to forget.

Solona had helped heal much of the physical wounds but the scars remained, a diagonal electric pattern that spread from over his right shoulder down his back to both hips. Jowan’s presence had been a balm since he had been returned to ‘normal’ Circle life.

Still - he could handle the little malicious wisps of energy. He half suspected that they were the Fade’s response to his own anxieties rather than anything the demon was doing or part of the ritual. It was the _demon_ he was worried about.

“Someone as fresh and unprepared as ever, thrown to the wolves. It isn’t right that they do this, the Templars. Not to you, me, _anyone_.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice and his eyes drew down to where the rat was watching him, sat on his haunches with far too intelligent of eyes. It was brown, with black eyes. It _looked_ just like the rats in the kitchens that he was certain Mister Wiggums had been in cohorts with to steal cheese.

This was the Fade, things weren’t what they seemed. Few sentient things here would be friendly. He needed to be cautious and intelligent about how he interacted with the beings here or else he’d wind up in trouble like he had before:

“You’re a talking rat.”

The rat looked at him like he was an idiot, disgust making his whiskers twitch.

That was...fair, actually.

“You think you look like _that_? You think you are really here, in that body? You look like that because you think you look like that.” The scorn dropped from his voice with a heavy sigh as he continued to talk: “It’s always the same. But it’s not your fault, you’re in the same boat I was, aren’t you? Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me...well, Mouse.”

The being’s shape glowed and grew until it was the shape of a man and solidified into a human wearing the robes of a Circle apprentice.

Falcon had to wonder if he’d have been nearly as alarmed by the friendly stranger if he hadn’t spent so many years watching exactly how friendly some of most dangerous people in the world could be towards their intended targets just prior to striking.

“You took the Harrowing?”

“It’s fuzzy, that time before,” the man pinched at the bridge of his nose as if the memory pained him: “They wake you up in the middle of the night and drag you to the Harrowing chamber, and then…The templars kill you if you take too long, you see. They figure you failed and they don’t want something getting out. That’s what they did to me, I think. I have nobody to reclaim. And you don’t have much time before you end up the same.”

 “What am I supposed to do?”

“There’s something here, contained, just for an apprentice like you. You have to face the creature - a demon and resist it, if you can. That’s your way out, or theirs if the templars wouldn’t kill you. A test for you, a tease for the creatures of the Fade.”

An involuntary shiver ran down his spine. Fear a chill deep in his chest.

“Anything can die, it won’t be that simple,” when he spoke again at last, he spoke softly - mostly to himself - not looking at Mouse but instead away, his eyes on the hazy silhouette of the Black City.

“You would be a fool to just attack everything you see. What you face is powerful, cunning. There are others here, other spirits. They will tell you more, maybe help - _if_ you can believe anything you see. I’ll follow, if that’s alright, my chance was long ago but you? You may have a way out.”

They pressed on, deeper into the Fade to find these other spirits and ignore the prickling irritation at the fact that Mouse really was a terrible liar. He should probably be glad that whatever Mouse _was_ it was bad enough at this to not make a believable mage apprentice.

Not that posing as a somewhat hapless, lost apprentice to garner sympathy and trust was a bad idea.

Mouse made no moves to directly attack - still he might have preferred the inevitable betrayal coming from a rat than a bear. Rats had much smaller teeth. Why had he thought encouraging Mouse to learn that shape from the Sloth demon was a good idea?

“You know better than the others, don’t you? The Circle is a prison. You have ‘choices’-” the bear beside him scoffed as they padded away from the Sloth demon and towards where his ‘test’ was to be. “-between joining and suffering various deaths of body or spirit. Do not forget it.”

Falcon clenched his jaw shut, he could hardly be cross with the spirit for the truth - it didn’t mean he _wanted_ to hear his thoughts echoed aloud.

“What do you know about the creature I must face?”

“There are...many creatures in the Fade. Some all fire and rage, some less so,” Mouse hedged but said no more.

They had reached the place where he was to face a demon.

A creature of fire and rage waited, revealing Mouse to be a traitor prior to their vanquishing him.

“You actually did it,” Mouse sounded impressed, or perhaps elated. “The others, I did not think they were worthy but you.”

“Those who you betrayed – what were their names?” he interrupted.

“It was…it was a long time ago, and they did not have your potential. Given time you will become a master enchanter with no equal…There may be a way for me to leave here, to get a foothold outside. You just need to want to let me in.”

Falcon narrowed his gaze – “Rage was not my test, was it, _‘Mouse’_?”

“What? What are you…Of course it was! What else is here that could harm an apprentice of your potential?” he demanded and when Falcon did nothing but frown in reply Mouse gave half a laugh: “You are a smart one.”

**_Simple killing is a warrior’s job._** Mouse’s form changed once again from that of a human to something larger – a pride demon or something similar to their ilk. **_The real dangers of the fade are preconceptions, careless trust…pride._**

The demon was leaving, the test apparently complete -

**_Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end._ **

He shuddered – feeling the voice in his blood and his bones than perceiving it as a sound.

Falcon turned and headed up the incline he had first descended. Mouse had mentioned portals and doorways that could be used to leave earlier, and he had seen something that might be a portal. If it had been activated by his completing the test he might be able to escape through it.

After he stepped through things became a bit of a blur: the ceiling of the Harrowing chamber, the First Enchanter announcing his success, the Templars practically carrying him back down to the dormitories and his bed.

As soon as his head hit the pillow he was asleep again. The lyrium still buzzing in his veins drawing him back into the Fade and without the rituals and spells in place to keep him in one place he was set adrift.

A woman with twisted horns stood on the edge of a craggy seaside cliff, her long blond hair tied into a pony tail as she looked out to the south. Her skin a grayish tone, and she had a bladed staff slung over her shoulder.

Falcon watched her for a moment, wondering if that was what Solona’s Issala looked like – she matched the description of the Qunari apostate, anyways - and why he might have been called there before the dream vanished from around him.

The next place was probably a nightmare more than a dream – an elf with dark facial tattoos struggled to free himself from a mirror which threatened to pull him in. The mirror dragged him into its depths and then the stranger was left alone, calling out a name in the darkness. Tamlin, or Tamlen, perhaps?

A creature-like shadow passed between them protectively guarding the Dalish from his presence. Like a cat guarding her kittens, and he was released from the dream to more familiar territories.

The scent of the salt air of Rialto Bay greeted him even before he was fully aware of the dream. And with it came the smell of leather, so powerful he nearly gagged.

He’d never been sure if he was just unlucky that his Voice was so keen on scents or if the Fade was somehow exacting some kind of spiteful vengeance for his mental complaints regarding its nature but in his Voice’s dreams he could always _smell_ Antiva before he could see it.

His own dreams weren’t nearly such an olfactory adventure.

At least the dreamscape was a shop and not the leather curing district.

The assassin was inspecting a pair of boots, a sort of wistful expression on his face. “Ah, enough of this, Zev, you know it is a dream and we said that we shall get a new pair when we return to Antiva, no?”

The blond laughed to himself – and Falcon knew in his bones that his Voice had finally decided on the mission he intended to die ‘attempting’ as he had planned so often in the past.

Zevran had found something dangerous enough for his pride to be satisfied but unappealing enough that he need not risk Taliesin following him into death.

“I wonder where you’re going,” the mage sighed as he looked around the shop.

Not that his Voice’s destination was what he was really thinking about. In reality he was wondering how much it would hurt when the potential bond was severed and he could no longer hear the assassin’s echo across the Fade.


	9. Falcon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of dialogue from the game in this chapter.

“Are you alright? Say something, please…” He could hear the note of desperation in his friend’s voice as he came to – the scent of Antiva’s salt air still in his nose, and if given a choice he might have spent longer admiring the way the sun caught on blond hair and made golden eyes light up.

He lifted his arm up and threw it over his face, blocking out any light before he lowered it to glower at Jowan.

He felt exhausted and jittery. Like little bits of lightning were crawling just beneath his skin, itching to be released. He wanted more sleep but the temptation to find something to throw magic at instead was there too, only there was nothing he was allowed to throw magic at so sleep was really the only viable option.

“Jowan,” he greeted in what was probably one of the least friendly greetings he’d ever given the other man.

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright – they carried you in this morning. I didn’t even know you’d been gone all night,” he breathed a sigh of relief.

Falcon snorted a little as he sat on the edge of the bed and stretched – it was hard to know if someone was there or not when you were sneaking around with an initiate priestess.  His skeptically raised eyebrows only got an eye-roll from Jowan in reply.

“I’ve heard about apprentices who never come back from their Harrowings – is it really that dangerous? What was it like?”

He hesitated as the memory of the demon’s voice echoing through his bones sent an involuntary shiver through his bones. He wished he could tell Jowan but knowing that he faced a demon had made the ordeal worse for him, it would be better not to have had the time to think on it.

“We’re friends Jowan but…please don’t ask,” he replied at last, meeting the other young man’s gaze.

“Hmph, so much for friendship.”

That hurt – “Jowan, please-”

“And now you get to move to the nice mages’ quarters upstairs. I’m stuck here and I don’t know when they’ll call me for _my_ Harrowing.”

Oh… _that_ was why Jowan was upset.

A year older than both he and Solona, an apprentice of the Circle longer, and just as good a mage as either of them and he was now behind them both.

Falcon forced a smile and gently gave the apprentice’s arm a friendly shove – he couldn’t really be mad at Jowan for feeling jealous. He would probably have felt the same way in his friend’s shoes: “It’ll be any day now, Jowan.”

“I’ve been here longer than you have – sometimes I think they just don’t want to test me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Tranquil never go through a Harrowing,” Jowan replied sulkily. “You do the Harrowing, the right of Tranquility – or you die. That’s what happens.”

Falcon grimaced – “Irving wouldn’t let them use the Rite on you, Jowan. You’re a good mage and you haven’t done anything wrong unless…” A chill went down his spine and he dropped to a whisper to ask: “Do they know about her?”

Jowan shook his head, still looking glum.

“Then don’t worry, they’re not going to kill you.”

“They might not but the Rite of Tranquility is even worse than-“

“ _Jowan_ ,” his tone was sharper than his friend deserved, but he continued in a hissed whisper. “I know the Rite is worth any cost to avoid.”

“I – oh,” Jowan flushed and looked away. “Sorry.”

He shook his head, “Me too, but Jowan? They’re not going to make you Tranquil, not unless you ask for it. Your Harrowing will be soon and then you can complain about how I didn’t warn you, okay?”

Jowan met his eyes and the corner of his mouth twitched into a sheepish smile – “I shouldn’t waste your time with this. I was supposed to tell you to see Irving as soon as you woke up.”

“...I’m not awake. This is all an elaborate dream, which will continue when I lay back down.”

That got a short laugh: “Too bad, Falc - you’re awake. And it seemed important so they’d probably send someone to wake you up soon anyways.”

He heaved a sigh, went to find a mirror in an attempt to not look like he’d just crawled out from under a rock, and then finally headed for the stairs up to Irving’s office.

Circle gossip was predictable – talk of rumors of blood mages which would doubtlessly get the Templars riled up and on a witch hunt, more carefully whispered rumors about who was sleeping with who, and talk about his Harrowing. Someone taking their Harrowing always brought new gossip and rumors.

That day there were also whispers about a stranger – apparently a Grey Warden was at the Tower. Which Falcon would probably care more about if he wasn’t tired and a little concerned that Jowan might be planning something reckless.

 “…many have already gone to Ostagar! We’ve committed enough of our own to this war effort!”

The fact that as he approached Irving’s office he could hear the sound of the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander bickering was not a surprise. He couldn’t even remember if there had been a time when it had been a surprise to hear the two argue.

Peace and harmony was not the example they set for their respective charges.

 “Your own? Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Geagoir? Or are you afraid to let the mages out from under Chantry supervision where they can actually use their Maker-given powers?”

“How dare you suggest-”

He hesitated in the doorway, the door wasn’t shut and he _had_ been summoned but he had earned enough of the Knight-Commander’s ire for a lifetime. He wasn’t sure he needed any more.

The third man who had been observing the debate up until that point caught his eye, a slight crinkling around them but not an actual smile before he spoke in a tone that could best be described as ‘commanding’: “Gentlemen – _please._ Irving, someone is here to see you.”

He faltered under the weight of all three gazes: “Sorry, First Enchanter, I can come back-”

Irving shook his head and waved him in, “If it isn’t our new brother in the Circle. Come, child.”

The stranger stepped forward, the look in his eyes going from friendly to evaluative. “…this is?”

“Yes, this is he.”

Falcon’s brows furrowed – why had Irving been talking to an armed and armored stranger about him? And why did Greagoir look like he had swallowed a sour toad when he’d seen him? He’d been unconscious since his Harrowing, how had he managed to upset the Knight-Commander _again_?

“Well, Irving, you’re obviously busy. We _will_ discuss this later.”

“Of course,” Irving answered Greagoir without really looking at the departing Templar. “Well then…where was I? Oh, yes. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.”

Irving was up to something and Greagoir didn’t like whatever parts of the First Enchanter’s plan he had guessed at already. Still, rather than trying to guess at what Irving was plotting he turned his attention to the Grey Warden – he definitely shouldn’t have been of interest to a Warden.

Especially not when Darkspawn were supposedly amassing on the southern border.

“An honor, ser,” Falcon told Duncan of the Grey Wardens. He didn’t know much about armor or weapons so he couldn’t judge the Warden by those but the man had a presence that drew attention and respect to him.

“You’ve heard about the war brewing to the south, I expect? Duncan is recruiting mages to join the king’s army at Ostagar.”

 “Truly?” It was a surprise to hear that anyone would want _more_ mages somewhere when they already had a number of powerful ones if what Greagoir had said earlier was correct. Maybe it was just that the non-mages he was used to were the Templars?

“The power you mages wield is an asset to any army. Your spells are very effective against large groups of mindless Darkspawn. And I fear if we don’t drive them back, we may see another Blight.”

“Duncan, you’ll worry the lad with your talk of Blights and Darkspawn. This is a happy day for him,” Irving scolded gently.

“We live in troubled times, my friend,” the Warden said by way of apology.

“We should seize moments of levity _especially_ in troubled times,” Irving pointed out before addressing Falcon again: “The Harrowing is behind you. Your phylactery was sent to Denerim. You are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi.”

“My leash, you mean,” the words were out before he could catch them. Usually he saved the rebellious mutters for where only Jowan would be able to hear them, he definitely didn’t make a practice of saying them to the First Enchanter’s face.

“Now, child it’s not that bad,” Irving sounded bemused more than anything. “We have few choices. The gift of magic is looked upon with suspicion and fear. We must prove we are strong enough to handle that power. You have done this.” He turned and collected a package from his desk that was wrapped in brown parchment paper and a staff: “I present you with your robes, your staff, and a ring bearing the Circle’s insignia. Wear them proudly, for you have earned them.”

He accepted the package quietly – “Thank you.”

“It goes without saying you shall not discuss the Harrowing with those who have not undergone the rite,” he added. “Now then – take your time to rest, or study in the library. The day is yours.”

“Yes, Enchanter.”

“I will return to my quarters for now,” Duncan commented.

Irving nodded and looked to Falcon, “Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan back to his room, child?”

It felt like a test – but he wasn’t sure what he was being tested about or _why_ and that was not a particularly pleasant feeling.

Not when his record wasn’t clean when it came to demons and blood magic rumors were circulating the Tower again.

“It would be my pleasure,” Falcon smiled politely – even if it _was_ some kind of test it would give him a chance to ask the Grey Warden questions at least, without Irving directing the conversation away from any information he wished kept from his charges.

As they left the hall and he stole another glance at the Warden the man spoke, “Thank you for walking with me. I am glad for the company.”

Despite his suspicions there was more going on, he relaxed a little. The Warden didn’t feel dangerous to be around the way that some of the Senior Enchanters and Templars did. “I was hoping I could talk to you some more, actually.”

Another slight smile, he was definitely being tested.  “Yes? What about?”

“Why were they arguing about the war?”

The Warden cast him a sidelong look, “It is not my place to comment.”

Solona might have been able to fish more information from the Warden but persuasion and charm had never been _his_ strong suits. Instead, accepting that was the only answer that he’d get, he asked after the Darkspawn and the Grey Wardens. It was a pleasant conversation, really, with the only part that truly caught him off guard being when Duncan had asked if his being an elf had been hard in the Tower.

His answer was honest, even if suspicion had caused his words to edge out slow and cautious: “Sometimes, it isn’t fair but…” he trailed off shrugging away the rest of the statement.

‘Fair’ was hard to expect from the tower these days – he’d be able to accept that one day. He wasn’t sure he would like the person that made him but he didn’t see what other choice there was.

Duncan studied him for a long moment, as if debating what to think of the reply. “Do not let that discourage you. Let it temper you and make you stronger.”

Jowan was waiting when he finished escorting the Warden, as soon as he approached Jowan drew him close and whispered: “I need to talk to you. Do you remember what we discussed this morning?”

Falcon frowned: “You know whispering just makes the Templars curious.”

“Shhh! I just want to make sure we’re not overheard, we should go somewhere else. I don’t feel safe talking here.”

Jowan was acting jumpy and paranoid. That was not a promising start to whatever was troubling his friend.

“You’re worrying me, Jowan.”

“I’ve been…troubled. I’ll explain, just come on – please.”

He watched his friend’s back and then sighed softly, walking after him, having to hurry to keep up with the human’s longer steps. The concern only multiplying as Jowan led him to the Chantry and to an enclave where Lily was waiting.

“We should be safe here,” Jowan announced.

“You’re Falcon, right?” Lily smiled, she seemed almost as sweet as Jowan had described her. At length. On a number of occasions. “I’m Lily, Jowan’s Voice.”

“I know, I mean, I know who you are. It’s good to meet you, Lily,” Falcon smiled to her. Before glancing between them, they both looked on edge and it wasn’t the sort of edge associated with introducing your lover to your friends.

“Jowan-” he started.

“Remember how I said they didn’t want to give me my Harrowing? They’re planning on making me Tranquil,” the desperation and fear in his eyes hurt. “They’ll take everything from me – my love for Lily. All gone. I’ll just be a husk, breathing and existing but not truly living.”

Oh Maker – where was Solona with the two bits of common sense the three of them had to rub together when they needed her?

“Why do you think they’re going to make you Tranquil, Jowan?”

“I saw the document on Greagoir’s table,” Lily spoke up. “It authorized the Rite on Jowan, and Irving had signed it.”

Falcon felt numb disbelief course through him – Irving had fought to make sure he’d had a chance to prove his innocence rather than be branded. Why would he sign off on Jowan being forced into Tranquility? Jowan wasn’t a danger to anyone and he’d be able to deny a demon.

“What?”

“There’s a…rumor about me – they think I’m a blood mage. They think that making me a Circle mage will endanger everyone,” Jowan said.

Falcon snorted, “You couldn’t be a blood mage – you hate the sight of it. But…if it’s already signed off…what are you going to do?”

“I need to escape. I need to destroy my phylactery and then they can’t track me down. Lily and I can leave – go somewhere they can’t find us, we can be happy together. Falcon, please – help us.”

Lily reached over and took the desperate mage’s hand and smiled up at Jowan, eyes full of love, trying to calm her lover and Falcon felt his own heart ache. His assassin was throwing his life away on some suicidal mission – he would never have the chance that Jowan did with Lily. He would be damned if let theirs chance crumble without doing anything.

“Alright - of course, I will help, you have my word. What do you need me to do?”

When he returned with the rod of fire he caught Jowan’s arm and pulled him to the side, “You are _certain_ of this?” he asked, voice hushed. “If this goes badly…”

Jowan whispered, sorrow laced through his words: “She’s my _Voice_ , Falcon. I can’t let them take her away.”

The elf closed his eyes – he couldn’t help the gut instinct that this wouldn’t go well. There were too many ways this could go _wrong_. Still – forcing Tranquility on Jowan was wrong, he couldn’t let them just steal away his friend’s best shot at happiness.

“I have the rod. You and Lily go down separately and meet me there. If the three of us go all together it’ll draw too much attention, alright?” he gave a weak smile.

As it was he was the last one to arrive – the Warden had caught him in the library and he’d done his best to carry a conversation without being suspicious. There was a glint in the old warrior’s eye that made him absolutely certain that Duncan’s presence in the Tower was going to be trouble.

Not about Jowan’s plot but there was something about the way that Duncan had watched him that reminded him sharply of Mouse. He didn’t have time to think too much on it.

He caught sight of Jowan and Lily as he descended the stairs into the repository. He tried to settle his nerves and focus on the task at hand.

He was betraying the Circle in a move that if they got caught meant his death – he was newly Harrowed but still a full mage. Chantry law forbade forcing it upon full mages as a punishment, which was a relief in a way but…

With Jowan’s and Lily’s lives and freedom depending on this he felt as though the Harrowing was probably going to have been the _easy_ part of his day.

The Rod didn’t work, as he’d jokingly quipped up in the Chantry the door _was_ a magic door. Or rather enchanted. The same sort of rune work that had been carved into the door of the cell on the level just below this one.

Jowan looked panicky, and Lily’s desperation and worry was showing through too.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear a snarled _Brasca_.

They needed another plan – any plan that wasn’t just standing there and being caught in the act.

“There’s another door – we’ll try it. Be ready to fight the guardians.”

He unslung his newly acquired mage’s staff from his shoulder, a brief prick fury with the Circle igniting in his chest as he caught sight of the Lyrium-infused ring on his hand. They weren’t going to make it out of this mess, not unscathed, but he might be able to get Lily and Jowan clear.

He wouldn’t let Jowan know what it felt like to feel desperation and fear echo through the Fade in ripples from his other half. He couldn’t.

“We’ll get your phylactery, Jowan. Don’t worry. You can get that farm you’ve always wanted, the one in the Orlais and raise fat chickens.”

“No chickens, chickens are evil,” Jowan scowled at him automatically, the long echoing joke enough to distract him into giving the expected answer.

Falcon was Ferelden and _definitely_ still of a city-breed, the idea of an Orlesian farm being an appealing place to live had always confounded him, and so the joking teasing had started there. Now getting the two distracted from the thought of impending doom had seemed a better idea than letting them freeze up with fear.

Lily laughed a little and Jowan smiled too.

“We’ll get married,” she smiled to Jowan.

“Somewhere away from the Circle and its rules, away from magic,” he agreed, reaching over to take her hand in his.

Falcon approached the other door, a wary eye on the Guardian standing silent in the hall and applied the rod of fire to _its_ locks.

The repository was someplace he might have enjoyed visiting under different circumstances, and not when starting to feel the effects of the day he’d had. He was curious about the artefacts there. And far less spooked by the talking statue than Lily was, if this went according to plan and they got away with this perhaps he’d try and come back to speak to her again.

As soon as the wall came down beneath the burst of flames the chilled air of the phylactery chamber rushed in, making Lily shiver.

“We must find Jowan’s phylactery quickly,” she said as they stepped down the stairs – why were there _stairs_ leading down from the wall anyways? Had the wall not always been a wall and that was why its construction had been so shoddily done?

“Wish mine wasn’t on the way to Denerim.”

“Would you destroy yours too, if it were here?”

He gave a bit of a shrug – of _course_ he would. A life outside the Circle, even as an apostate, was better than one where his every action was watched and then judged to a standard of a Chantry which he could not bring himself to believe in, much as he had tried periodically over the years.

“Sorry,” Jowan murmured.

“Let’s just find yours and get out of here.”

The Guardians in the chamber sprang into action and rushed them before he could get his staff up or Lily could settle her shield back into place. (Frankly it was a little worrying for Jowan’s future health how efficiently that woman was using a mace to bash in the metal heads of the guardians.)

Before any could truly threaten them a dark haze had suddenly enveloped the attacking automatons.

Falcon threw himself back and away from the dark cloud of magic. The sickly haze blooming and spreading, each Guardian trapped within twitched and thrashed, gave one final shudder and then collapsed.

“Maker - what was _that?_ ” panic hitched high in the initiate's voice as she started at Jowan, even more fear in her expression than when she had realized the talking statue was Tevinter magic.

Falcon stared at Jowan, dumbfounded, and Jowan was staring at his own hands just as lacking in an explanation.

The amount one needed to pour into a spell that strong wasn’t something that Jowan could easily accomplish. Falcon wasn’t even sure _he_ could produce a spell that intense and he’d always been the one that approached spell-casting like a magically-inclined bronto.

“Worry about it later,” Falcon said at last. Whatever the reason for Jowan’s new found strength they could consider later – once they were free from the Circle and well on their way to finding that farm. “We can't have much longer.”

Jowan’s phylactery was easy to find - neatly labeled and stored in the corner of one of the cases. An empty place which had yet to gather a film of ice from the chilly enchantments was a few spots down from it on the shelf.

Falcon ignored the pang of jealousy that shot through him – that had probably been where _his_ had been kept prior to some Templar taking it to the cathedral at Denerim for the Chantry to take possession of it.

“That’s it! You found it! I can’t believe this tiny vial stands between me and freedom. So fragile, so easy just to be rid of it and break it’s hold over me…” Jowan stared at the vial after it was handed over to him, as if morbidly fascinated by the contents. His expression strange enough that a chill ran down Falcon’s spine. The vial dropped from his hand to shatter on the floor, “…and I am free.”

“Let’s get going – we have to hurry if you’re going to get free before anyone notices.”

“I do not want to stay here a moment longer,” Lily agreed emphatically.

As they began to walk she caught his hand and smiled to him, “Your help is beyond the bound of duty or friendship – you have our gratitude. Always.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lily. Just take care of him out there,” he murmured. “He’s going to need you.”

She gave him a warm smile and then hurried to catch up to Jowan who was already on his way back out and up. He wasn’t sure how they planned to get out of the Tower, and he was certain that it was best he didn’t know.

As they emerged to the floor above Jowan turned to thank him and the sound of armored footsteps greeted them.

Irving and Greagoir approaching with the Templars both wore thunderous expressions.

Icy fear shot through him like an arrow, far colder than the phylactery room, and he could feel his heart drop. They’d taken too long. Or the plan had been known from the start.

He couldn’t think of any way to protect either of them.

“G-greagoir,” Lily stuttered.

“An initiate conspiring with a blood mage – she seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall then. You were right Irving, the initiate has betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished.” Greagoir turned his furious gaze to Falcon. “And _this_ one. Newly a mage and already flouting the Circle’s rules.”

“I am disappointed in you,” Irving’s expression flickered with sorrow. “You could have told me what you knew of this plan and you didn’t.”

“You don’t care for the mages! You just bow to the Chantry’s every whim!” Jowan spat. Falcon mentally winced: so, maybe, Anders really _had_ been a bad influence.

The bristling Jowan had moved himself to stand protectively in front of Lily, putting himself between her and the Templars.

“Jowan,” he said quietly – as justified as the anger was he couldn’t help but want to defend Irving’s actions. The man had been like a father to the apprentices for so long.

“Enough!” Greagoir declared. “As Knight-Commander of the Templars here assembled, I hereby sentence this blood mage to death! And this initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows, take her to Aeonar.”

“Th-the mage’s prison. Please, no, not there,” Lily begged, quailing from the approaching Templars.

“No! I won’t let you touch her!”

Falcon’s gut turned to ice as he watched Jowan draw the knife.

And he only had time to think - _oh, Andraste, no_ – before the wave of power hit.

Jowan was gone when he struggled back to consciousness, and Lily was knelt on the ground as she sobbed.

She hadn’t gone with him, he had used the power to _protect_ her and she hadn’t gone with.

She was Jowan’s Maker-forsaken _Voice_ – she said she loved him. Why would she abandon him now? Jowan had tried to protect her and instead she had surrendered herself for punishment by the people who had backed Jowan into his corner.

He had plenty of anger towards Jowan boiling through his thoughts too - how could he be such an idiot to turn to _blood magic_. And plenty of bitterness too - he’d used a spell against everyone in the room who wasn’t himself or Lily…

He was going to die for Jowan’s mistake and his friend, the man he thought of as a _brother_ , had just left him to do so. When the hurt of the betrayal was allowed to sink in, if he were alive to do so, he would shed tears over it.

Falcon went to Irving to check on his teacher, he would face the punishment given to him with his head high.

Or, he would have if Duncan had not interfered.

The pack containing his few belongings sat heavily on his shoulder despite how little it contained – just his three sets of completely identical extra robes and his sketch book and charcoal really. He stood just outside the Tower door, Templars glowering at him and shoving by his stiff-legged stance as they left to hunt Jowan.

His knuckles were white on his staff, shivering as he stared out across the water. His breath came too fast.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t be a _Warden_.

They were heroes. They were brave. They saved the world from Darkspawn. He wasn’t like that! He’d never known the world outside his books and prying into his Voice’s dreams.

“Nervous?” Duncan asked, placing a hand gently on the mage’s shoulder to guide him out of the Templar’s way.

They would have to wait for the hunters to finish departing to be able to ferry across to the shore.

The younger man nodded mutely, then turned his gaze up to the massive Tevinter structure where he had spent the majority of his life. “I always wanted to leave but…I didn’t think it’d be like this. I…thank you, for saving me from the Templars.”

Duncan shook his head, “This is no charity. The life of a Grey Warden will not be an easy one, but I would not have taken you if I did not believe you capable of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my poor unfortunate souls - I finished my draft outline and it's looking like you'll be with me another 69 chapters (keep in mind my chapters vary wildly in length).
> 
> I am thinking about starting to post on a schedule instead of randomly as I finish like I have been. Do ya'll have any preferences as to that?
> 
> Oh! And you can find me on tumblr [@aly-the-writer.](https://aly-the-writer.tumblr.com/).


	10. Solona

“Hold _still_ ,” she huffed, scowling at the blond sitting in front of her. He kept _moving_. “If you don’t your nose is going to be crooked forever and it won’t look anymore charming on you than it does on Daveth.”

“Hey, now!” the rogue responsible for his comrade’s current condition protested. The knight he’d been flirting with had missed the punch meant for _his_ face when the former pickpocket had ducked and Alistair had gotten caught by it instead.

“You should just consider yourself lucky that she decided not to do anything besides break his nose. Now shoo, I have to heal this and I’m sure you have women who can’t ‘accidentally’ set you on fire with a thought to annoy.”

“Why’s it always ‘Ser-ah’ with you anyways, Sol, you don’t sou-ow!” she chose to use the moment to set the nose properly since he’d finally stopped trying to twist his head away from her grip.

“I was from Kirkwall originally,” she flushed the injury with magic, repairing the broken tissue now that it was straightened properly. “The accent’s mostly gone but I still have a few linguistic quirks leftover.”

She probably should have just left the injury to heal on its own but she was practiced enough setting this kind of thing now that it didn’t take much and Ferelden’s army had little in the way of handsome faces – she wanted one of the ones she actually liked seeing to be free of bruises.

Plus Alistair was a genuinely sweet guy and getting punched by the lady Ser Vallen wasn’t his fault.

He’d been a good friend since they’d met a few days before, even if she had mainly taken advantage in getting him to move the heavier crates of supplies for her. It was a hassle trying to get anyone else to help her: she could keep their guts from falling out but Maker forbid anyone help the mage move the supplies she actually _used_ to do it.

There was something about him that made him easy to relax around – and if she hadn’t had her Voice waiting for her in her dreams each night she was certain that she’d have developed a crush on Alistair by that point.

“The new recruit’s from the Circle – do you think you know him?” the Warden asked as she finished her work and stepped away to toss the cloth used to clean up his bloody face in the burn pile.

“No offense - I really hope not.”

The Wardens’ blood hummed with the Taint’s power. A slow death sentence in exchange for power – power used in a life that was usually cut short by a brutal and violent end. She wasn’t sure which fate was better but neither were ones she wished on anyone.

Anders might thrive in the Wardens but he hated doing as he was told. The others she was close to? She couldn’t imagine Jowan or Falcon doing well in that life. They had been put through enough sacrifice with the Circle and magic, they didn’t need anymore.

“Excuse me, Warden Alistair?” one of the priestesses approached, a dirty look cast at the healer mage as she did so. “The Revered Mother wishes a favor from you.”

Alistair’s shoulders fell and his previously happy smile deflated, reminding her a little of a kicked puppy: “Okay – I’ll go there next.”

“Be careful when you blow your nose the next few days,” she advised him while the priestess left and from out of the pocket in her robes she pulled a packet of hard candies. There weren’t many left - less than a handful remained of the sweets she’d bought in Denerim a few days before leaving with the army.

She deposited one in Alistair’s hand and was greeted with the smile’s return for it.

“Go on, she’ll only be more bitter if you keep her waiting too long. It’s nearly lunch time, you don’t want to take too long on it.”

With the blond Warden she returned to the task of preparing for that night:

The battles had been steadily getting worse. There were more dead and fewer wounded with each night and stories that the Darkspawn dragged the injured away into the darkness screaming had grown tenfold among the soldiers. Some of the wounded that were brought to them had to be killed by the healers themselves, the taint already near to taking them completely.

She had run low on elfroot - there were enough poultices and potions made but it would be better to have the raw materials on hand, just in case.

With a list of supplies she needed she headed down the stairs towards the quartermaster. She spotted the Warden-Commander first, Duncan was a formidable man whose presence drew attention to him. When she saw him she looked around for the staff and robe that would indicate another Circle mage.

There gaping like an idiot at the Mabari that the kennel-master was treating and with Alistair standing next to him was – _No. No, no, no._

Of all the – he couldn’t be the Warden Recruit.

Blue eyes shifted from the dog to her, a lifetime of being observed telling him when he was being watched. The smile had vanished, his eyes locked with hers. He tried to smile but it was sad like the one he had given her the day she’d left.

Falcon was dressed in the robes of a mage, not an apprentice. He’d passed his Harrowing before the Wardens had claimed him: that was good – not that she’d expected any less from him.

His approach was slow and cautious, probably because she was in the midst of trying to decide if she wanted to be furious with him for being the Warden recruit or if she was happy to see him here, unmarked by brand, and free from the Circle’s prisons. That and some guilt played across his expression, though what she couldn’t guess at.

“Solona, it’s…” he trailed off. She couldn’t fault him for not being able to finish the sentence – it wasn’t like _she_ was any happier to see him at Ostagar after all.

Instead she broke the bubble of space between them, stepping forward and hugging him as tight as she could. A hug that was quickly returned as the dam on his emotions broke inside Falcon and he started to cry against her. Quiet tears as if to not draw attention to them – something every Circle child learned.

Alistair had come up behind, looking a little lost, as if not quite sure how to approach the situation or the pair of mages. He met her eyes and then looked away rubbing at the back of his head.

“We have a bit of time before we have to leave. An hour. I’ll meet you by Duncan’s tent then.”

“I’ll make sure he’s there,” she promised the Warden, holding her friend tightly. Maker, what had happened at the Circle while she was gone?

The herbs could wait until Falcon was busy with whatever the Wardens would have him do later. She would need something else to think on then, but for now she and Falcon made their way up to her tent silently.

“Falcon – why are you here. You think heroics are for idiots.”

“That’s because they _are_ ,” the answer was quiet, but she could hear the notes humor playing through her friend’s voice. That was good at least.

“Then why are you becoming a Warden?”

He hesitated before looking away, “No choice. I don’t think Duncan would’ve let the Templars have me even if that was what I wished. Sol – Jowan is a blood mage.”

She sat down heavily on her cot, staring at her friend. She couldn’t have just heard those words, she couldn’t believe them. It had to be a joke, right?

“Falc that’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“Andraste’s tits,” she swore. “What happened to him? You’re not-“

The offended look at the half-formed question was enough to make her stop. He might not hold with Chantry restrictions but he’d never liked the idea of demons, she doubted he was any fonder of them now than he was before.

“Of course you’re not. But…how? Why?”

“I don’t know – not sure I want to. I only found out when he used it to escape the Templars, he hit me with the spell too. He was gone when I woke up.”

“Alright – tell me _everything_.”

Falcon started slowly, stumbling a few times as emotion – anger as much as sorrow – overwhelmed him. He told her how he’d woken after his Harrowing to find Jowan fretting, how he’d met Duncan, how Jowan had approached him with the doomed plan, and the way that plan had failed.

After he fell silent she stayed quiet for some minutes, trying to process the story. Falcon wasn’t a liar, not to her, anyways, but she couldn’t understand _how_ it had all happened, or why.

“And now you’re becoming a Warden,” she said at last. “Maker, I don’t suppose I could convince you to run away to the Free Marches with me? You know what, screw the Marches - let’s just go to Antiva, we’ll find your elf and Issala can meet me there.”

A wry smile and a shake of his head: “He’s not in Antiva right now, he’s left to try finding death abroad. And with the Wardens I can at least try to do some good. More than I could as an apostate or dead.”

She scowled at him, “Why couldn’t you be the selfish one. It’d be so much easier to convince you not to throw your life away.”

“If I were selfish you wouldn’t be trying to convince me to run away,” he pointed out dryly. “The Wardens I’ve met - they’re not so bad, I think…and it’s a life outside the Circle. That’s what I wanted.”

“You wanted a life where you got to choose for yourself. You didn’t want to get trapped by walls _or_ duty.”

“And you just gave me a choice, didn’t you?” he teased, smiling a little. “…I’m going to be stuck with the Wardens but they’re saying it’s a Blight – you should leave, go to the Marches and find your _Ashasala_.”

“I can’t – I have a duty as a healer to stay and help.” She gave him a smile back: “Besides, who’s going to look after you if you get yourself hurt again and I’m gone?”

“No one, obviously. My wound will fester terribly and my arms will fall off and I’ll have to head-butt the Archdemon into submission. Just like in the stories.”

“That is _not_ just like the stories,” she laughed, giving up on trying to scowl and glower at him. She wouldn’t be able to convince him to run, even if she explained the taint to him. Their hour was nearly up. “…but I think once the army leaves Ostagar I’ll go to her.”

“Well then I’ll have to come visit you tomorrow and you can tell me all about what it’s like to live in Denerim.”

“It’s a deal,” she smiled, standing up and hugging him tightly. “You’re the last of my brothers I know where is, Falcon, _please_ be careful. I don’t think I can stand to lose another.”

“You’re the only sister I truly know,” he replied, hugging her back tightly. “I love you, Sol. I’ll be careful, but you be too, okay?”

She caught his hand before he could leave.

On impulse she pulled her Circle ring off and pressed it into his hand. “You’ll have to bring this back.”

Falcon smiled and pulled his own off his finger – handing it to her. “Look after mine for now too then.”

They hugged again and he left in at a trot to meet the other Warden-recruits, as he listened to Duncan’s instructions Falcon’s hands were busy stringing the ring onto the necklace he wore his father’s jet pendent on.

She watched them leave for the wilds, his lyrium ring fisted in her hand.

Why couldn’t she shake off this feeling of dread?


	11. Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair takes the Warden recruits into the Kocari Wilds to gather what they need for the Joining...

He wished he could ignore the sense of guilt that pricked as he watched the three men step into the Wilds ahead of him. Daveth and Jory he’d known for a few days already, Falcon just a matter of hours but he was certain of one thing – he didn’t want to see any of them fall to the Joining.

Duncan said it was a necessary evil, and letting the Blight go unchecked…that was no option at all. And so he entered the Wilds with these three who had only the faintest inkling of the danger that waited them to try and keep them alive until the Joining itself. And then only the Maker could help them.

 “Over here!” a weak voice called out. On the path ahead of them an injured scout was struggling to stand.

Falcon unslung the staff from his shoulder, his eyes on the trees around them. It took Alistair a moment to realize that the elf was on alert for anything else that might have heard the man’s plea for help.

“Who…is that? Grey Wardens?”

“Well he’s not half as dead as he looks,” Alistair commented, levity his first instinct when faced with the injured man and his charge’s reactions: he could see fear written in the knight’s expression and concern in the mage’s as the elf crouched by the soldier, a hand on the man’s shoulder to still him gently.

“My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn. They came out of the ground…please! Help me! I’ve got to…return to camp…”

Falcon glanced up to Alistair, “Do you think he’s tainted?”

At first he thought that the mage might have guessed at the Grey Warden abilities on his own – or been told by Solona that the Wardens were tainted – but _most_ likely was that it was simply a question directed at him because of his experience and an understanding that the taint was a sort of disease.

“No,” Alistair shook his head – he didn’t want to think about what the response would have had to been if the scout _did_ have the taint. Somehow the man had avoided it despite all the blood and his injuries.

“Do you have any bandages?” He rifled through his own bag, the gentle clink of glass sounded from it as he drew a healing potion out and uncorked it for the injured man.

Alistair nodded, handing the cloth over to the mage who kept his face carefully schooled as he set to work on bandaging the worse of the injuries while the scout downed the potion.

If they didn’t have their own mission he would have insured the scout made it back and safely into Mistress Amell’s care, not hoped that the bandages were enough.

“Did you hear? An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!” Jory’s eyes were wide, and his voice a little too fast.

“Calm down, Ser Jory, we’ll be fine if we’re careful,” his tone was aimed for as soothing and reasonable a tone as possible.

“Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There’s an entire army in these forests.”

“There are darkspawn about but we’re in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde.”

“How do you know? I’m not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back.”

“That danger is probably a part of our test,” Falcon’s tone sounded carefully measured, he wasn’t challenging the knight but he wasn’t agreeing either.

“That’s…true.” Jory hesitated.

“Know this: All Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here,” Alistair spoke slowly and calmly, trying to impress on the knight that they were as safe as one could expect when going darkspawn hunting.

“You see, ser knight?” Daveth’s smirk probably did nothing to help the knight. “We might die, but we’ll be warned about it first.”

“That is…reassuring.”

If that was what ‘reassured’ sounded like in Redcliffe he might have to be grateful for his departure to the Chantry at such a young age.

“That doesn’t mean I’m here to make this easy, however – so let’s get a move on.”

“There it is!”

He had been distracted as he tried to suss out the source of the darkspawn’s whispers through the taint – they were near but he wasn’t sure precisely _where –_ and so he nearly tripped on their mage when the elf stopped dead to collect a flower from a rotting log.

“What?” Daveth had drawn his knives, surprised by the elf’s sudden outburst. Jory looked just as startled.

“It’s for a dog,” Falcon flushed before his expression hardened as he saw something behind the others, he swung his staff up and a burst of cold energy flew past Daveth to freeze a charging genlock in its tracks.

The rogue shivered but moved in to attack the darkspawn’s fellows while Jory and Alistair drew their weapons and jumped into the fray.

Ser Jory lowered his blade after cutting the last of the darkspawn down, his eyes locked warily on their mage. “Does it always feel so…unnatural?”

“In the accounts of the Fourth Blight many people describe being near darkspawn as feeling ‘oppressive’,” Falcon commented, prodding one of the corpses with the end of his staff, inspecting the creature. It wasn’t until he glanced up and saw the looks that he was getting from the other two recruits he realized that Jory hadn’t meant the darkspawn. “Oh.”

 “I’ll try to keep the spells further away,” the mage told the ground, before he crouched beside the corpse, collecting the vial of blood carefully. His posture smaller than before, fading back to the subdued quiet that had characterized most of the elf’s interactions.

“Well _I_ for one like the way the frozen ones break when I hit them with my shield.” The statement was rewarded with a curious glance from Falcon, but the surprise and suspicion in it was accompanied by the faintest of smiles.

He hadn’t meant to be friendly with the recruits – he didn’t _want_ to be friendly with them until he was sure they would all survive but he hadn’t been able to stay quiet.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t understand why a mage should be feared – he probably did better than Daveth or Jory did, Templar training and all. But…he remembered what it was like to be rejected by his supposed ‘brothers’ on the basis of things he could not control, that had not been his choice.

The Darkspawn kept them busy enough to the archive’s ruins with surprise attacks and a rather impressive ambush that all three vials were easily filled and the two older men never got a chance to voice more discomfort with magic.

“This is the tower?” Falcon asked, his eyes tracing the ruins as if trying to guess the age of the structure. “I wasn’t expecting something _this_ old. Are you certain the seals won’t have failed?”

The Wardens had given this archive up when they’d been banished from Ferelden two centuries before. The fact that anything remained was probably more surprising than the absence of parchments in the broken chest.

Falcon crouched down to inspect the enchanted chest that _should_ have contained the treaties. The elf’s brows furrowed as if puzzled by something there.

He might have asked what but they suddenly had company. Not the darkspawn sort, but nearly as bad – a woman dressed in Chasind robes, a staff in hand with the same sort of casualness that Falcon held his. It wasn’t a pole weapon.

“Well, well what have we here?” her eyes sharp on the company though she seemed to have picked Falcon out as the one to address: “Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn filled wilds of mine in search of easy prey? What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

“These are _your_ wilds?”

“I know them as only one who owns them could. Can you claim the same? I have watched your progress for some time. ‘Where do they go?’ I wondered, ‘Why are they here?’ And now you disturbed ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?

“Don’t answer her, she looks Chasind. And that means others may be nearby,” Alistair warned – this woman was definitely dangerous even if she wasn’t Chasind and with that staff she had to be an apostate.

“You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?” she moved her arms in a dramatic gesture, scorn written in every line of her body.

“Yes, swooping is bad,” he replied – so come-backs were not his strong suit but he really didn’t like this woman.

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is, she’ll turn us into toads,” Daveth hissed.

“Witch of the wilds, such idle fancies those legends. Have you no minds of your own?” her gaze went back to the silent mage who seemed curious but not on edge or defensive as his companions were. “You there – elves are not frightened little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

The elf offered her a polite bow and a friendly smile: “My name is Alim Surana. It is a pleasure.”

“Now that is a proper, civil greeting. Even here in the wilds,” the woman actually sounded a little charmed as much as amused by the answer, “You may call me Morrigan. Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest - something that is here no longer?”

“Here no longer? You stole them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of…sneaky…witch thief.”

“How very eloquent, how does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily it seems,” he scowled – as much as he hated to admit it she _did_ have a point there. Duncan had asked they retrieve those treaties, he didn’t want to disappoint. “Those documents are grey warden property, and I suggest you return them.”

“I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened.” The woman drew herself up, and her hand shifted its grip on the staff ever so slightly – as if prepared to cast a spell if there was a need.

“You know who did take them though,” Falcon phrased it as a statement not a question.

“’Twas my mother, in fact,” the witch’s posture shifted once more to something less defensive and more curious - a slight grin playing at her lips. It reminded Alistair of a cat toying with her prey.

“And would you be willing to take us to her?”

“There is a sensible request, I like you,” she laughed, smiling at the mage.

“I’d be careful. First, it’s ‘ _I like you…_ ’ and then ‘ _Zap!_ ’- frog time,” his voice falsetto.

“She’ll put us all in the pot, just you watch.”

“If the pot’s warmer than this forest it’ll be a nice change.”

Falcon shot them all a withering look as if to ask ‘ _Really_?’

“Follow me, then, if it pleases you.”  Falcon didn’t wait for his comrades, following immediately behind her as Morrigan led them into the wilds and to a hut where an old woman was tending a fire.

Had this been anywhere but the middle of the Kocari Wilds the woman might have looked almost…normal. Okay, maybe slightly batty still but her appearance wouldn’t have been half so alarming in Highever or Lothering. She actually seemed too _normal_ for this place.

“Greetings, mother, I bring before you four grey wardens who-”

“I see them, girl,” she cut the dark haired woman off. “Mmm…much as I expected.”

The look she cast over them was speculative – lingering longest on Alistair and Falcon. There was something in her expression that reminded him of the way someone looked at vegetables in the market before deciding if you would buy them or not.

“Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?” there was something almost too theatrical about the way that Morrigan was so formal with her own mother. It was easy to believe they were mother and daughter too – their noses were very similar.

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe,” the old woman’s eyes landed on him and he nearly flinched under that gaze though he wasn’t quite sure why. “Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide, either way one’s a fool!”

“She’s a witch, I tell you. We shouldn’t be talking to her,” Daveth hissed – old memories of older stories from his home showed in his fearful expression.

“Quiet, Daveth, if she’s really a witch do you want to make her mad?” Jory hissed back.

“There’s a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant in the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. And what of you? Does your elven mind give you a different viewpoint? What do you believe?”

“I…” Falcon faltered, the woman’s gaze on him – his shoulders had gone stiff and his stance shifted back warily under the weight of it. “…am unsure.”

“A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies. Be always aware…or is it oblivious? I can never remember,” she laughed and then fixed the elf with a hard look: “So much about you is uncertain…and yet I believe. Do I? Why it seems I do.”

“So this is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?” Alistair asked with false bravado. He wasn’t sure whether the woman was simply crazy or had real power – what he _was_ certain about was that he wanted to conclude this business quickly.

“Witch of the Wilds, huh? Morrigan must have told you that,” the woman cackled. “She fancies such tales, though she would never admit. Oh, how she dances under the moon!”

“They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother,” the younger woman glowered.

“True, they came for their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking - your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these,” the older woman turned away and collected the documents that had been within easy reach.

“You…oh. You protected them?” his temper quailing – the woman had had the parchment where it could be easily and quickly given to them when they arrived. Perhaps she _had_ expected them. That was not a comforting thought.

The documents were handed to Falcon who glanced them over out of curiosity before he passed them to Alistair. The old woman and Morrigan had a favorite of the group – _probably because Falcon isn’t making an ass of himself_ – but the mage was making it clear which of the group was actually the leader.

“And why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize.”

A dozen questions and accusations sprang to his mind at the words but it was Falcon who spoke first, cutting off any further commentary by his peers. The look he cast them at them telling them in no uncertain terms to _shut up_ :

“Thank you for protecting and returning them.”

“Such manners! Always in the last place you look, like stockings!” the crone cackled once again. Her eyes gleamed with an intelligent, predatory light – one that promised trouble.

He couldn’t be _certain_ but he thought he saw Falcon shiver as they left the area. Jory made the sign of the Maker on his chest while Daveth hurried as quickly as he could to make sure that _he_ wasn’t the last one in the clearing as they left.

Morrigan led them by a different path from the forests and delivered the party safely to the edge of the king’s camp before she seemed to vanish back into the shadows of the gathering night.

“That was weird, right? It’s not just me who thinks that was strange,” Alistair asked.

Falcon grinned, “Let’s just be glad I don’t have to explain to Duncan why you and Daveth got turned into toads.”

He laughed a little sheepishly – he and Daveth had been rude to the old woman and her scary-strange daughter, and he should learn better than to be rude to strange mages. Without Falcon acting as a foil with his quieter and more polite posture they might not have been able to retrieve the treaties.

 “So you return from the Wilds,” Duncan greeted them as the party approached him by the fire. “Have you been successful?”

Alistair handed over the items the party had retrieved. Three full vials of darkspawn blood – which Duncan took – and the treaties which the older Warden waved off, leaving them in Alistair’s care.

“Good, I’ve had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you’ve retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.”

The three recruits had different reactions to the idea of the Joining happening – Jory was nervous, Daveth looked excited, and Falcon cautiously curious.

“There was a woman at the tower, and her mother had the scrolls. They were both very…odd,” Alistair spoke up – wanting Duncan to know what had happened before it could be forgotten. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the two women were dangerous and still, somehow, a threat.

“Were they wilder folk?”

“I don’t think so – I think they were apostates.”

“I know you were once a Templar, Alistair, but Chantry business is not ours. We have the scrolls; let us focus on the Joining.”

 “Can you tell us more about the ritual now?” Falcon spoke up.

“I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.”

Jory and Daveth exchanged a look. The big man clearly unhappy with the news. Falcon nodded a little, thoughtful more than anything.

“Let us begin. Alistair – take them to the old temple.”

The younger Warden nodded, his expression grim as he took them to where Falcon had found him sassing the mage that morning.

He stayed silent, watching the three recruits, and wished he could do something besides worry at what plans the Maker had made for them. He liked all three of them despite his efforts to stay distant, he didn’t want to see any of them lost to the Warden ritual.

“The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it,” Jory was tense and agitated.

“Are you blubbering _again_?” Daveth sounded incredulous.

“Why all these tests – have I not earned my place?”

“Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you.”

“Calm down,” Falcon’s voice was firm but quiet, his patience with the pair’s bickering was apparently running thin. “There’s nothing to be done now. Prodding one another will only make things worse.”

“I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me…” Jory trailed off and then defeated: “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Would you have come if they had warned you? Maybe that’s why they don’t. The wardens do what they must, right?”

“Including sacrificing us?”

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight.”

“You saw those darkspawn, Ser Knight. Wouldn’t you die to protect your pretty wife from them?”

“I-”

“Maybe you’ll die, maybe we’ll all die,” Daveth interrupted. “If nobody stops the darkspawn we’ll all die for sure.”

“I’ve just…I’ve never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade,” despite his bulk at that moment the knight seemed so fragile. He looked to Falcon, “And you – are you not afraid?”

“There are worse fates than the taint or death. At least here I have a chance – besides, Solona can read Nevarran. I can’t die – she’d just bring me back to yell at me some more.”

The joke got an odd look from the other two but Alistair had to cover a smile with his hand. As a former Templar he probably shouldn’t laugh at a joke about necromancy but he _could_ picture the fierce healer doing just as he said.

 “And so we come to the Joining,” Duncan approached them from the stairs behind, his face set impassively. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the first blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of the Darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

“W-we’re going to drink the b-blood of those creatures?” Jory stuttered, his newly obtained façade of calm melting away into nerves once more.

“As the first Grey wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power – and our victory.”

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon.”

“Not all who drink the blood will survive. And those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret – it is the price we pay,” Duncan spoke seriously, letting his eyes land on each of the recruits in turn. “We speak only a few words prior to the joining. Alistair – if you would?”

He shuddered a little before taking a deep breath and speaking the words as he had been taught:

“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you.”

Duncan turned and fetched the cup from the altar, the heavy air of solemnity and silence unbroken until he spoke: “Daveth, step forward.”

Daveth stepped forward, and after a slight hesitation drank. After he passed the cup back to Duncan he screamed – the sound sending ice through Alistair’s blood as he choked on the blood. The taint had claimed him.

“Maker’s breath!” Jory stepped back, eyes wide with fear.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan murmured before facing the retreating knight. “Step forward, Jory.”

“But…I have a wife, a child. Had I known-” he pleaded. Alistair’s heart felt sick watching the knight’s hand go for the blade.

“There is no turning back.”

“No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this,” he drew the weapon as if to fight his way free.

Duncan set the cup on the altar and drew his blade, sorrow written in his face – duty was not always a pleasant thing. They clashed only briefly, his blade ending Jory’s life swiftly as the Warden-Commander murmured to the dying man: “I am sorry.”

Falcon had stepped back – Alistair’s own shock and horror reflected on his expression. To die from the taint was one thing – to be cut down by Duncan another. Alistair knew _why_ , he trusted Duncan to make the decision as to what was best but that didn’t mean he was okay with what had happened.

“But the joining is not yet complete,” Duncan sheathed his bloody blade and lifted the cup up again, approaching the mage: “You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good.”

With hands that trembled the mage drank.

“From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden,” Duncan pronounced.

He did not cry out as Daveth had as his body shuddered. Sparks danced along his fingertips as his magic reacted to the pain that coursed through his veins and the elf’s stance wavered dangerously. When he fell Alistair caught him before he could hit the ground.

Duncan knelt beside them as he lay the elf down more gently.

“He will survive,” the older man said at last, watching the magic die out. His eyes went up to Alistair. “We must sacrifice much to stop the Blight, Alistair. It wasn’t all in vain.”

Alistair looked to his fallen comrades and then the newest brother of the Order. And nodded quietly – it was sad that Jory had died that way, and that they had lost Daveth but Duncan was right. Stopping the Blight was what mattered.

When that was done…when that was done he would go to Highever and find Jory’s wife. He would find _some_ way to make sure that that baby was taken care of. First they needed to survive the Blight.

There was a low groan as Falcon woke and placed a hand to his temple as if to try to massage the ache away.

“It is finished,” Duncan said as the elf’s eyes opened. “Welcome.”

“Two more deaths. In my joining, only one of us died, but it was…horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it through,” he didn’t try to smile this time, though he was relieved to have at least one of them survive.

“How do you feel?”

Falcon eyed Duncan warily as Alistair helped him up to his feet, “That hurt worse than when – then the Harrowing.”

“Such is what it takes to be a Grey Warden.”

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair asked. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.”

Something about the question made Falcon’s brows furrow: “That wasn’t the Fade.”

“Such dreams come when you being to sense the Darkspawn. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come.”

“Before I forget there’s one last part to the Joining. We take some of that blood and put it in a pendent. Something to remind us of…those who did not make it this far.” He passed the token to Falcon who looked at it and wrapped the chain around his hand for the time being.

“Take some time. When you are ready, I’d like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king.”

“What? Why?” Falcon’s puzzled surprise was enough to bury some of the resentment that Alistair could feel at the idea of the new mage being asked to go to the meeting but not himself.

“The king is discussing strategy for the upcoming battle, I am not sure why he has requested your presence.”

After Duncan had departed down the stairs Falcon looked to Alistair – opening his mouth.

“If the king wants to see you, you probably shouldn’t keep him waiting,” he smiled a little. “He might get mad, and start crying, and you’ll feel bad and…well, it won’t be pretty.”

“Not pretty at all,” he agreed, a wan smile played across his lips. “Alistair can you tell Solona?”

“What? Oh, of course. I’ll tell her you survived,” he nodded then made a shooing motion. “Go on. I’ll make sure she knows you’re a proper Warden. Can’t keep the king waiting.”

He found the healer as she finished checking on the scout that they had found earlier. The man was now bandaged and resting fitfully with whatever dreams – or more likely memories – his mind had conjured.

Seeing him approach her hands went white-knuckled on the cloth she had in her hand, wringing it hard. “Is he -?”

“Falcon made it,” Alistair gave her a faint smile. “The King wanted him at the meeting. I’ll make sure he comes to see you after the battle.”

The woman heaved a sigh of relief and stepped over, hugging him as she had Falcon earlier - “You _both_ will. Someone’s got to patch you both up when you finish your heroics.”

Alistair blushed, stammering, “I-I should go, Duncan will want me waiting soon as they’re done at the meeting.”

Solona nodded, worry written across her face but someone had called her name further down the line of cots, “May the Maker watch over you, Alistair.”

“You too, Solona.”

He stole a glance back at the healer who was hurrying to help one of the nurses in the Chantry garbs make up beds in preparation for those that would be wounded in the battle.

It was people like her - people who could give their whole lives just to make someone else’s better - that the sacrifices they made as Wardens were about. Solona Amell and those in the world like her were worth protecting, even if sometimes that meant as Wardens the actions they took could be deemed as evil.

“You both will go to the Tower of Ishal and insure the beacon is lit,” Duncan told the two newest Ferelden Wardens.

“What?” he startled. “I won’t be with you?”

“This is by the King’s personal request, Alistair. If the beacon isn’t lit then Teyrn Logain’s men won’t know when to charge,” Duncan’s tone was patient, as if asking him not to cause trouble over it.

“So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?” Alistair couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice that seeped through like poison – Cailan wanted the glory for himself, wanted to make sure that _he_ stayed far away where there was no risk of Alistair being noticed by anyone.

He knew Falcon had asked a number of questions about the Tower and their task while he was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be able to stand beside Duncan during the fight but he hadn’t paid any attention to them, not truly.

“And if the archdemon appears?” that question at least caught Alistair’s attention.

_Could_ the archdemon truly appear that night? There’d been no sign of it as of yet.

“We soil our drawers, that’s what,” Alistair said, not sure if he was joking or not. They weren’t ready to fight an archdemon. The two of them even more than the Wardens on the whole.

“If it does, leave it to us. I want no heroics from _either_ of you,” Duncan held their gazes with an intensity that booked no debate until they both had nodded in agreement to that order. Once they had he sighed: “I must join the others. From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens, I expect you to be worthy of that title.”

“Duncan?” Alistair stopped the man, “May the Maker watch over you.”

He gentled a little, placing a hand on each their shoulders and squeezing them gently, a smile that Alistair fancied as nearly paternal for them both. “May he watch over us all.”

The grip tightened again and then Duncan left to meet the other Wardens and the king.

“You alright?” Falcon asked quietly, glancing up right before lightning struck one of the ruined towers.

Alistair turned to the other Warden ready with a joke and a retort thinking the question was out of pity but he didn’t see any in the other’s gaze as it turned from the sky and back to him, just concern: “Yeah…Let’s just get to the tower. It may not be the most glamorous job but we best not dawdle.”

It began to rain and the first sounds of battle filled the air as they made their way across the bridge.

As they approached the foot of the Tower one of the guards who had persumbably been stationed there ran up to them, “The tower! It’s been taken,” he panted. “The darkspawn, they came up through the lower levels! It’s overrun.”

He had wished for combat hadn’t he? This…wasn’t quite what he had had in mind though. Too many of the lives below – Duncan and the other Wardens - depended on them getting to that beacon in time.

“Then we’ll have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!” he shouted over the growing noise of the storm, “Come on!”

He drew his weapons and settled them right as a ghostly sheen of magic – and ice enchantment – danced across them. Falcon grinned at him:

“We need to hurry, don’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some trouble getting Alistair's voice right for this chapter, but hope ya'll enjoyed it!


	12. Solona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Injury, Death, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence.

Solona shouldn’t have stopped – she _knew_ she shouldn’t have but she had anyways – she should have taken the horse that Wynne had put her on and road hard for the North. To a Chantry where she could submit to the Templars and be escorted safely back to the Circle or her post at Denerim. If she wanted to be reckless she could have gone North - to the Free Marches or Nevarra - and let the Circle believe her killed. Gone to meet Issala Adaar in person finally and heard the complaints of Aban Mertam regarding his apprentice’s _Ashasala_ being a mage for herself.

Instead she had stopped because there had been a pull on her attention – something like a whisper on the edge of mind that she couldn’t quite decipher had called out to her.

She hadn’t known what it was but sometimes magic reacted to the presence of those you were close to like that – this tug had felt achingly like _home_ and _safety_ in a way she’d only felt before with the boys she’d come to think of as ‘brothers’ more than she did the ones taken by the Chantry before her she could barely remember.

The Tower of Ishal – the place that Alistair and Falcon had been headed towards the last time she had caught a glimpse of them - had been one of the first places to fall when the darkspawn had swarmed. Still Falcon was stubborn and stronger than he gave himself credit for, he might have escaped.

She hoped that it was Falcon.

The roar of the battle – or rather the screams of dying men and the shrieks of the darkspawn horde -  were concentrated behind her but smaller packs of darkspawn attacked those who fled Ostagar and spread out further north - heralding the first onslaught of the Blight.

Well…second. Solona had few doubts that the Chasind had already engaged the creatures as they pushed northwards from wherever in the wilds they had burst from the Deep Roads. Without the protection of stone fortresses or a large, organized army the tribesmen had probably not fared well.

The signal fire had gone up on the Tower of Ishal moments before word came that Loghain had retreated and the army had broken under the weight of the horde. Ostagar was lost.

Those who could escape were fleeing while the tattered remnants of the army that still stood could only try to slow the darkspawn’s advance as long as possible. Most those who still fought did so to escape or as a sacrifice to allow others to do so by the time the rain that had turned the ground to mud had stopped.

A traitorously bright moon shone between the scattering cloud cover as the last of the hurlocks fell, choking on a vicious entropy spell. The tip of its blade touched her boot harmlessly.

Straightening her staff she caught the reins of her already nervous horse and headed for the source of the whisper.

Her heart nearly dropped from her chest.

It wasn’t Falcon.

The young man had black hair matted with sweat and blood and looked to be just shy of twenty like her friend but he was human. His face still a little pudgy with the baby fat of youth that hadn’t quite been hardened into manhood yet.

He had collapsed against one of the massive stone slabs that had doubtlessly been the foundation of some wall but now only served as rubble. Blood smeared in a streak, a sword laid useless in a hand too weak to lift it. He was near death now.

Eyes that matched the soft baby blue of a spring sky tried to focus on her, brows furrowing a little, “Bethy? What are-” he rasped as panic flashed across his face. “You gotta go – you can’t be here, it’s not safe.”

“Shhh,” she intoned gently – a glance over her shoulder to check to make sure no darkspawn were in immediate sight before she knelt by the man. “What’s your name?”

“Bethy, you need to go – get Garrett and Mother and run. They’re coming,” the desperation in his voice hurt – as did the knowledge that this boy whose final moments she was probably going to witness had family that would probably never know what happened to him.

She plucked at the chain on his neck, pulling the thin tag with his name and home village on it – identification purposes, should bodies be recovered so they could be returned to the appropriate Chantry.

_Hawke, Carver. Lothering._

Her heart broke for what was the second time that day.

“Tits,” she swore.

Her ‘family’, tattered and weird as it was, was the most important thing in her life. It’d always been brothers with her. Four by blood and three she’d found in the Circle. Damion, Tristan, Gawain, and Aristide lost so long ago she wasn’t sure she remembered their faces. Jowan and Falcon were lost now too. All she had left of her broken little family now was Anders.

And Anders wouldn’t lose his Voice.

Not today. Not when she could do something about it.

“It’s going to be alright, Carver,” she told him gently, focusing her magic on beginning the impossible task before her. “You just gotta stay awake for me – I know it hurts, and you’re tired but you have to.”

If she got him healed she could get him back to his family and get them all moving north towards safety, couldn’t she?

Lothering wasn’t far – she’d passed through it with the army on her way south. She only remembered where the little town because she thought she had seen her mother for a moment – an older woman who had been watching the army go by had borne a strong resemblance to Revka.

Healing was not an easy thing to do at the best of times, and trying to heal a wound that should have been fatal on half-magic with a horde of darkspawn bearing down was _not_ the best of times. The only thing she could be grateful for with the massive number of deaths on a Tevinter fortress was that the veil was spread thin to the point of breaking.

The Spirit of Compassion was a familiar one. Not the most powerful spirit but they had been the first to come to her. An old friend, almost, the way Faith looked after Wynne Compassion had looked after her from the Fade, helping where they could for as long as she could recall.

She was grateful at the quiet spirit’s willingness to help stop the hurt as their strength kept hers from failing.

Carver stopped breathing twice but by the time she was done his skin was paler than it should be the wound was healed enough she could get him moving.

“Who are you?” Carver rasped, opening his eyes again as she prodded him into mounting the horse.

Before she could answer though an arrow flew by, drawing a line of blood on her cheek where it had grazed. A darkspawn archer snarled as she turned to face it and threw a deadly spell at it.

She could feel her heart beating erratically in her chest and the ache in her limbs that signaled the first symptoms of mana drain.

Gritting her teeth she slapped the horse’s rear harshly, sending the trembling animal bolting into motion and away from the darkspawn. Once going the horse wasn’t going to stop. She could hear Carver swearing as he clung to the beast’s neck.

Ander’s Voice was going to live.

But she was going to abandon her Voice to face the long nights in the Fade alone now.

As Solona blinked back tears she set her feet and cast another spell as a second and third darkspawn attacked. It was a stealthed genlock that plunged their blade into her side even as she killed it. She fell, her back hitting the stone against which Carver had lain and she tilted her head up, looking for the stars or the moon.

Something besides the blood soaked mud.

A dragon spread her wings as she perched on the Tower of Ishal and then took off: two dolls clutched in her talons as she swept across the battlefield and away to the South. Not dolls – bodies.

She closed her eyes and let Compassion guide her to the Fade and away from her body and the hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	13. Morrigan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took longer than the others to show up. Morrigan and I apparently don't get along when it comes to writing.

Her mother had brought back both the young Wardens, riddled with enough arrows that they had rather resembled balding porcupines.

The two men should have died – the elf _did_ stop breathing a few times as Mother had tended to him.

For three days they had tended to the men – admittedly Mother more than she – but one of the young Wardens had finally awoke and had been ushered outside to be told of the battle’s fate.

It seemed foolish to her for him to waste so much energy grieving over dead men – especially dead men already doomed to be taken by the taint. All Wardens were the dead walking, why did it matter if they fell sooner rather than later, especially during a Blight? Was that not to be expected?

A part of her knew that her anger was at his allowance to grieve. He had lost people he called his _friends_ and he could cry. She had had the other half of her soul torn away by the Blight and she wasn’t allowed a moment to mourn.

She knew _why_ she was angry but didn’t care to stop the anger or direct it towards a more deserving target than the blond Warden.

Nor would she be allowed the chance for her grief. There was much to be done if the plan was to succeed.

With a disgusted scoff – why should it matter if she had time to mourn a man who she had never even met? – she went to organizing the shelves left in disarray by the attempts to keep the keys to said plan breathing and somewhat useful.

She was not some sniveling coward who needed some man to save her from the demons – let the Circle mages long for their foolish dreams, let the Magisters use their bloody crutches. She had power of her own and she was unafraid to use it.

The Voices were an echo of something that once was – a remnant of an older power mistaken as a promise.

_She_ had no need of such a useless, pretty bauble.

What use had she for such a broken thing that would tie her like a fool to a man not smart enough to keep himself away from the Taint?

The elf behind her stirred quietly, a soft pained sound the most noise he made as he sat up, but it was enough to distract her from her mulling on a different elf entirely.

Of the two Wardens he had been the worse injured. The one less likely to wake – but the one that she assumed more necessary if they had a chance of halting the Blight with so few Wardens, he at least seemed to possess _some_ intelligence which was more than could be said for his companion.

She half suspected that the elf _had_ died and been ushered back to the living by her mother’s magic. Not that that was a question her mother would be willing to answer.

“Ah, your eyes finally open,” she approached the bedside as he sat up gingerly. “Mother shall be pleased.”

Realization – or the memories of what had happened returning – made the elf suddenly stiffen, a hand pressed over his heart. His fingertips tracing the pale scars left from the arrows that had nearly claimed his life. A hair’s breadth the other way and even her Mother’s magic might not have been enough to save him.

“I-what,” he stopped, and seemed to try to gather his wits before he proposed a question: “Where am I?”

“Back in the Wilds, of course. I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten and I have just bandaged your wounds. You are welcome, by the way,” he opened his mouth to reply to that statement but she pressed on instead of giving him a chance to speak yet: “How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?”

“She rescued me? From the tower?”

“Mother managed you and your friend, though ‘twas a close call. What is important is that you both live,” she didn’t miss the subtle flux of magic in the air as the mage made certain they weren’t actually in the Fade, though she pretended not to notice. “The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend…he is not taking it well.”

“Massacred?” his voice was soft with…something. Not quite sorrow - there was a sharper edge to it – closer to anxiety or worry, perhaps. “This is…I don’t think I’m taking this well either.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Your friend has been inconsolable since Mother told him the news. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”

“Did anyone escape – are there survivors from the camp?”

“Only stragglers that are long gone. You…would not want to see what is happening in that valley now.”

The elf reached up to touch the lyrium infused ring that hung at his neck – “What is happening there?”

“Are you sure you want me to describe it?”

He gave a soft, half broken, laugh – “I know I don’t, but please do anyways, Morrigan.”

“I had a good view of the battlefield. Tis a grisly scene, bodies strewn everywhere. And Darkspawn swarm them, feeding I think. They also look for survivors and drag them back beneath the ground. I cannot say why.”

His knuckles went white as he squeezed the ring before letting it go, as if he had completed some silent prayer. When he returned his gaze to her this time his jaw was set, his shoulders held a little squarer.

“Why did your mother save us?”

“I wonder at that myself, but she tells me nothing. Perhaps you were the only ones she could reach,” Morrigan answered, the lie coming easy to her lips. If the blue eyed elf suspected any of what she said to be false he didn’t give any outward sign of it. “I would have rescued your king. A king would be worth a much higher ransom than you.”

“Much, much higher,” was the dry reply, a bit of a grin playing at his lips despite whatever grief was weighing him down.

“What a sensible attitude,” she tried not to smile back. “Mother is seldom sensible, however.”

“How _did_ she rescue us, exactly?”

“She turned into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from the top of the tower. One in each talon,” Morrigan smirked. “If you do not believe that tale, then I suggest you ask Mother yourself. She may even tell you.”

“She doesn’t seem the sort to give the truth you ask for and I’m afraid of what truths she might be inclined to share.”

“’Tis time you speak with Mother, then, be on your way.”

“Morrigan?” he asked as she turned away to return to fixing the shelves, when she looked back he bowed his head a little, “Thank you.”

“I…you are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.”

“I’ll go talk to her now,” he moved slowly, redressing in his robes and claiming the now nicked and beaten mage’s staff.

Morrigan exhaled softly before she started the stew for that night and began to assemble what she would need to travel. A pack of herbs and poultices already prepared -

She barely paid any attention to the ‘debate’ between herself and Mother. It had already been decided she would ingratiate herself to the Wardens by joining them so that when the time for the ceremony came she would have a better chance of persuading them to go through with it.

Her protests were rehearsed, prepared to make it seem like her mother had given her as little choice on the matter as she had the Wardens.  Which she _had_ but their true argument over the subject had occurred during the three days both men were still unconscious.

“And you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you _must_ succeed.”

Falcon shifted back, as if suddenly uncertain – Morrigan suspected the elf could sense at least a fraction of her mother’s power, or at the very least knew the legend behind the name ‘Flemeth’ before he bowed his head, “I understand.”

“Allow me to get my things, if you please.”

Once inside the hut she shut the door firmly behind her and released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She didn’t want to go but Mother said she had to, and to make sure the Blight was fought and the ritual done properly…

She picked up her bag and set it on her shoulder, and picked her staff up. She had seen the pair fight before she’d approached them in the Wilds that first time but this journey would not be an easy one for any of those, even if she was far more prepared – or at least more knowledgeable – on the subject than the Wardens were.

Any weakness that she had allowed to linger while in her mother’s protection would have to be buried and stamped out. She could not allow such things as dreams, no matter how pretty or sharply the edges of the now-shattered ones could cut, to interfere in what was planned.

“I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the wilds as our first destination. Tis not far and you shall find much you need there. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours.”

“I would prefer you speak when you want to.”

“You will regret saying that,” cackled Flemeth.

“Dear sweet mother, you are so kind to cast me out like this. How fondly I shall remember this moment.”

“Well, I always said if you want something done, do it yourself – or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards,” the second part was half grumbled, some old memory that Morrigan had long since learned asking about would be pointless.

“I just…do you really want to take her along because her mother says so?” Alistair – uncertain of her presence still – looked to his fellow Warden.

“There’s only two of us, Al – we need all the help we can get.”

“I guess you’re right. The Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they could find them,” Alistair murmured bitterly.

“I am so pleased to have your approval,” even she wasn’t sure she could have laden that statement with more sarcasm.

“What _are_ your skills, anyways?”

“I know a few spells, though I am nowhere near as powerful as Mother. I have also studied history, and your Grey Warden treaties,” she narrowed her gaze at the Circle trained mage defensively.

“Can you cook?” Alistair asked.

“I… _can_ cook, yes.”

“You won’t have to cook if you don’t want to,” Falcon shot his companion one of his ‘shut up’ looks that had made their first appearance before, when the mage had been trying to keep his comrades from antagonizing her.

“You missed your chance. Now it’s charred rabbit from here on out.”

Falcon snorted a half-laugh anyways before he asked several other questions – about her experience and Lothering she had suggested they go to – even about _her_ desires. He hadn’t just been making noise regarding wanting to be certain that joining them was her choice.

“Farewell, Mother. Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned down hut.

“Bah. Tis far more likely you shall return to find this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight.”

“I…all I meant was…” guilt and the sort of reflexive fear of disappointing that only a mother could bring out flooded through her veins and her confidence wavered.

“Yes, I know – do try to have fun, girl.”

She stole a glance back as she led the Wardens into the Wilds once more – her mother watching after them. She fancied the expression was pride, but she knew most likely it was likely bored curiosity that kept Flemeth watching their departure.

They walked in heavy silence for a while – though she heard the elf break it quietly to provide comfort for his fellow’s grief over the lost Duncan. They kept their voices low enough she couldn’t make out the entire conversation, nor was she interested in eavesdropping on such a sappy conversation.

“Solona may have escaped the battle.”

Solona? That was a new name, and a woman’s name – the owner of the ring the elf had clung to earlier?

She might’ve pondered the question longer but as they reached one of the roadways she intended to lead them along the sound of barking filled the air.

The Mabari bounded straight for Falcon, bouncing in a few short circles while still barking loudly before turning to snarl at the pack of darkspawn on his heels. The short fur on his back raised as he set himself deliberately between the mage and the approaching pack.

The fight was short, but enough that she caught Alistair giving her a more contemplative look as he cleaned his blade of the darkspawn. As if he were deciding what to think of her abilities.

Her fellow mage, meanwhile had dropped into a crouch, cleaning the Mabari’s face of darkspawn blood as if he hadn’t just seen the beast rip the throat out a hurlock. A gentle smile playing across his lips as he petted the dog, murmuring soft non-sense about what a ‘good dog’ the creature was.

“Is that the one from Ostagar? I think he was out there looking for you,” Alistair commented. “He’s…chosen you – Mabari are like that. They call it imprinting.”

“Does this mean we are going to have this mangy beast following us about now?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the thought. “ _Wonderful_.”

“He’s not mangy!” Alistair protested, going over to crouch next to Falcon – a smile appearing for the first time as he inspected the dog.

 “They don’t let you have pets in the Tower but I always wanted a dog,” the elf was grinning. “What do you say, boy, wanna come along?”

The hound barked happily in reply, bounding up and down.

It twas just her luck that both the Wardens were so… _Ferelden_. Of course the dog would be coming with.

“What will you call him?” Alistair asked.

Falcon opened his mouth then closed it, blushing, before he continued: “Loopy. If that’s alright by you?”

The silly dog – for all his noble standing woofed loudly, bouncing in reply to the name before flopping over to the ground and getting his belly scratched. The ridiculous name was going to stick…it _sounded_ almost like a childish pronunciation of the Ancient Tevene word for ‘wolf’.

“Loopy it is,” he grinned to the hound. Glancing back to her and seeing she was still looking unimpressed he coughed a little. “We should – ah, keep moving.”

That night they settled in a tiny camp, no blankets or tents or food, just pressed close to the fire and listening as hard as they could for any threat in the night.

The brief happiness brought by the Mabari’s arrival long since forgotten.

Alistair spoke little, and Falcon spoke mostly to the dog – in soft whispered tones – and she only spoke to growl or snap at them when she perceived some annoyance with their actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alert: Wild Writers have been spotted in the area. If spotted, approach these beings with caution. They can be skittish and fragile, but a steady diet of comments and kudos will help the population thrive.
> 
> Do you part to protect the fanfic wilderness today!


	14. Zevran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran Arainai arrives in the land of the Dog Lords to receive his mission and gets the chance to say goodbye to an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Isabela/Zevran going on.
> 
> Also - please note - that Isabela's response to Zev is NOT healthy nor was it meant to be presented as such

Perhaps he should have taken the job in Kirkwall instead – Ferelden was a miserable place that stank of wet dogs and mud. At least Kirkwall he might have had a chance of finding some decent food prior to trying to throw his life away.

“I have an interesting report – it seems that two Grey Wardens escaped Ostagar – although I know not how. Several scouts have reported seeing men of that description traveling north from the Wilds. I have arranged a solution,” he gestured towards Zevran and signaled for the assassin to approach now, “By your leave.”

“The Antivan Crows send their regards,” he gave a customary smirk, his eyes trailing over the armored regent in a way that could be taken as appreciative and flirty or just curious.

“An assassin?” the bitter faced regent sneered as he turned away. His disdain for his supposed right hand was obvious. Although Zevran suspected that the rat-eyed Arl-turned-Teyrn had betrayed anyone foolish enough to trust him.

“Against Grey Wardens you will need the very best,” Howe replied, the scorn didn’t seem to faze him a bit.

Zevran chuckled, affecting his usual bravado for all he had no real interest in the conversation, “And the most expensive.”

The man twisted to glower at him, the effects of his drink showing around his eyes, a sneer on his lips before he turned back towards the fire once more, “Just get it done.”

He bowed to the regent and backed away respectfully, the man was an old mabari hound and he wasn’t sure that he wished to be snapped at by such a creature. Especially not when it would get him nothing in return.

Howe provided him with sketches and information on the most likely targets and then a discreet exit from the Ferelden royal palace via a servant’s gate.

One of the first things he had noticed when he disembarked from his ship that morning was a familiar ship. _The Siren’s Call_ was in Denerim, which meant that in one of the brothels or taverns he’d undoubtedly turn up an Isabela.

It was simply a matter of finding which one she had picked.

He planned on dying – he ought to at least say goodbye to the first love of his life. It was only polite, no?

Isabela – beautiful, charming, _deadly_ Isabela - had a gorgeous elf in her lap and most a man’s money on the table in front of her as she laid the cards down. Her eyes sparking with laughter as she swept the money off the table – doubtlessly she had cheated but she _had_ most decidedly won that hand of Wicked Grace.

She pressed a kiss into her lady’s neck before handing her the coins and sending her to fetch more drinks from the bar while she convinced her former opponent not to make a fuss over his loss or her cheating.

For his part Zevran took a place at the bar, grinning as he watched his Isabela fight.

The lessons he had once given her as a half-thought out favor to a beautiful friend had been perfected into the deadly dance of a true master duelist. She’d honed those early skills into something uniquely her own and it had been years since he had been able to match her with blades.

She laughed as the men, finding themselves facing only defeat at the tips of her daggers fled instead, with their lives if not their dignities.

The blades slipped back into the sheathes and she tossed some errant black hair back behind her shoulder before her eyes finally landed on him. A wicked grin spread across her face – and the warmth of long years of friendship, and more, lit up in her eyes.

“Well, well,” she chuckled, sauntering over, “Never thought I’d see _you_ outside Antiva.”

She used his mother tongue and that struck a chord of homesickness after spending all day hearing the long Ferelden tones in Common.

“Ah, you know how it is, Bela,” he smiled, wrapping an arm around her waist as she drew near and kissing her in return. “I go where the Crows send me.”

She pulled back to study him, her eyes lingering on the worn edges around his eyes and he felt for a moment she seemed to read every hidden sorrow that he had kept tucked away. For years Isabela had been the only one who saw through every mask and playful jest, she was the only one he had permitted to.

She never demanded they be drawn down – her own hurts and heartbreaks carried their own masks. He hoped someday she might find someone that would let her set them down – his Isabela deserved to be as free as the ocean winds that called to her, not anchored to the weights of her past.

“The _Call_ is nearby, let’s go,” she grinned, sliding her hand down his arm.

He chuckled, “What of your lady friend?”

Isabela turned her gaze towards where the red head had perched at the bar finishing her drink as she chatted with a man who clearly had money, the way she was sizing him up more about her interest in his coin-purse than his jewels.

She grinned – of course a pretty thief would catch her eye - “She seems to have found some fun of her own. I’m sure she’ll understand – and if not? That loss is hers.”

He laughed as he let Isabela pull him from the Pearl and to the _Siren’s Call_ and they became reacquainted in the manner customary to them after long absences in one another’s company. She knew some part of him loved her, and he knew if she could she would return that but as it was this was simply fun between two friends.

Later, loose and relaxed, he used the candle lit in her cabin to observe the sketches he’d been provided by the Arl of Amaranthine.

He had grown up an elf in Antiva City, and so he had heard a great many tales of Garahel. It seemed that the Wardens were still rather effective at drawing handsome young men to their cause. It was almost a shame that these two would doubtlessly find death soon – if not at his own hands then the next assassins sent.

One bore a striking resemblance to some of the paintings he had passed in the palace earlier of the late Ferelden hero-king Maric as well as the newly deceased Cailan.

The poor fellow was a royal bastard – had to be with those looks.

No wonder Loghain and his rat-eyed arl were eager for the Wardens to be dead. Eager enough to pay the Crows to ignore the Arl’s involvement in the death of one of the guild-masters’ nieces. There’d be trouble at home over it when it was discovered but that was no longer his concern.

The other was young - barely old enough to be an adult – and not nearly dangerous enough looking to be a fierce warrior. If not for the note that someone had left on the edge of the sketch ‘Surana - Mage’ he might have thought his employers mistaken about the mark.

There was something nearly familiar about the set of those eyes and the frown the elf had been rendered with, but he couldn’t place his finger on it.

Isabela draped an arm around his bare shoulders, her chest pressing against his arm at the side as she leaned in to look at the pictures.

“Pretty things, aren’t they?” she asked.

He gave a soft chuckle, “It is a shame more entertaining games would fall so dreadfully flat with these Fereldens, no?”

She snorted a little, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “They seem a little young for you to use to throw your life away, Zevran.”

He stiffened a little. “Why, Isabela-” he started, a lie springing to his lips.

One she silenced by flicking his ear in a manner that left it stinging. “Hush. I won’t stop you, Zev. You looked for me to say goodbye, didn’t you?”

He looked away, guilty, “I was glad to see you were here.”

“Tell me why.”

“Rinna – Taliesin and I…” his voice choked and the mask of the careful, arrogant crow fell away.

She brushed some of his hair, loosened by their earlier activities from his face. It was a gentle touch, and he turned into it.

“She begged me not to, Bela.” His legs trembled, his whole body must’ve as Isabela chose to draw him to sit on the bed as he spoke instead of leaving him standing where he might fall. Tears were falling now and he bent his head instead, resting his forehead against the neck of his first love as he finally wept for his second.

Her hands soothed his back but she didn’t say anything.

Once, long ago, with a gifted key and a dagger Zevran had helped her find her freedom on the seas. The Crows clipped the wings of their assassins so that the only freedom they might find was death. She would not deny him his escape from their cage.

After the last tears fell, in quiet and low voices over a map of Ferelden they drew up a plan. He would hire some of Denerim’s worse and together with them an ambush on the lonely road from Ostagar could be set.

The Bastard Prince had been raised at Redcliffe Castle, and the mage the Tower on Lake Calenhad. They would try for one of those places from the town of Lothering, north of Ostagar’s wilds. If he was lucky, and he so often was, he could catch them before they reached either bastions of potential alliances on the road prior to where it split around the Silver King’s lake.

There the Maker would decide his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! I LIVE! (mostly)  
> Sorry that this update was so long in coming. My head was not in a fun place so my writing had puttered out.
> 
> I'm not completely happy with this chapter (and I suspect it could use more editing) so there may be minor adjustments to it in the future but I've written and deleted it three (four?) times now so I need to stop and move on to the next chapter or we'll never get anywhere.


	15. Falcon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens and Morrigan reach Lothering and collect two new recruits to their fight against the Blight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is game-dialogue heavy. Sorry about that.

The glint of ice on the stones and the smoldering, smoking singe left through the unlucky bandit’s chest from where he’d struck out with lightning when they had reached for Morrigan glimmered too brightly in his eyes.

Falcon might’ve been content to talk his way around the bandits – two mages and a trained warrior plus a big old Mabari weren’t the prey they were interested in. They could have talked their way around the bandits even if it meant leaving them to attack whoever came on the road after them – not that many more people would be heading North from that direction, most who had been able to run from the Blight had already done so.

Instead Morrigan had needled – that was one of her more charming personality quirks, they were quickly discovering – and one of them had gone for his blade _nearly_ quick as lightning in response to her insults.

Lightning, however, had remained the faster of the two.

The thin cloth gloves he had as part of the mage’s equipment provided by the Circle when he’d left were scorched beyond repair. He hadn’t burnt himself casting without using his staff _this_ time. He caught Alistair’s concerned side-eye and wiggled his fingers at him to show the lack of burns.

The former Templar snorted and smiled a little before he returned to wiping his blade clean. They’d not killed all the bandits, but those that had escaped had not done so unharmed.

Morrigan fixed him with a particularly dark glower – being protected was _not_ something she approved of.

Focusing on anything but the corpse and the scent of magic he walked the few steps over to get a look at the town that was their destination.

He and Duncan had stopped at the inn here on the way to Ostagar. His robes and staff had caught the curiosity of one of the village girls until her elder brother had ushered her away with a smile. If he saw her again he would apologize – he’d been far more irritable with her than her questions as to Tower life had warranted.

The elf turned his gaze towards Alistair, who was coming up behind him, “Lothering – pretty as a painting.”

Falcon smiled a little – glad to hear some of the young man he had met at Ostagar back in the other Warden’s voice.

“Ah, so you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble?” Morrigan scoffed.

He’d _felt_ what grief could do to a person - it was why he was waiting for the day that he would find the Fade silent. (Since waking at Flemeth’s hut though he had been too exhausted to dream by the time he bedded down, curled up against Loopy for warmth.) He’d been afraid of losing Alistair to that the way he was going to lose his Voice.

“Is my being upset so hard to understand?” Alistair snapped, on the defensive. “Have you never lost someone important to you – just what would you do if your mother died?”

He was afraid of losing _himself_ to that when he finally brought himself to admit that Solona had probably not survived Ostagar.

_That_ truth lay ignored – or at least bitterly refuted at every chance - Sol wasn’t just a healer, she could cast some wicked entropy spells thanks to Jowan’s patient tutelage when they were younger. She could have survived a fight against Darkspawn, easily.

“Before or after I stopped laughing?”

Right now he had to believe she had.

That for once she’d put herself before others and hadn’t waited until it was too late to flee because she was trying to aid others in their escape attempts. That she wouldn’t have stopped to heal –

Solona had escaped Ostagar. Jowan had escaped the Templars. Anders would escape the Tower and find his Voice.

“Riiiight, very creepy. Forget I asked.”

Lies upon lies, added to the small mountain of them he told himself to make it through a day: That Shi’s eyes had been _worried_ not terrified of the monster her little brother had become when she pointed him out to the Templar. That Zevran’s pain did not echo in his own heart. That the Circle cared about its apprentices. That the Wardens were a chance at freedom.

“Morrigan – leave him alone.”

Alistair didn’t have the luxury of such lies but he was surviving still. That took strength, and his grief deserved respect not scorn and cruelty.

The fate of the Ferelden Wardens was clear. Alistair deserved the chance to grieve while they were still mostly out of sight of Ferelden.

“But how can I? He is right there, speaking, eyes wide like a brainless calf.”

“Oh, I get it. This is the part where we’re shocked to discover you’ve never cared for anyone in your entire life.”

Alistair must’ve touched a nerve as Morrigan’s posture changed to something predatory, true anger glinting in her golden eyes: “I can be friendly when I so desire to be. Alas wishing to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“Anyway…” unlike Morrigan Alistair had no desire to poke at another’s festering hurts. “I thought we should talk about where we intend to go first.”

It took a moment to realize that both eyes were on him – and it clicked that they were waiting for _his_ direction. “Why are you leaving it up to me?”

“Well _I_ don’t where we should go, I’ll do whatever you decide.”

“Well, that is hardly surprising.”

Falcon’s eyes widened a fraction but he kept most his internal panic off his face – _No, Alistair!_ That was a terrible idea, he couldn’t lead! He was an elf and a mage, he barely knew anything about the world outside the tower!

“I think what Flemeth suggested is the best idea. These treaties…have you looked at them?”

“I – uh, yes, I have,” he nodded, focusing himself on the task. Alistair needed him to lead them for now, there wasn’t anyone else to do it – he _had_ to. “We can call on the Dalish, the Orzammar dwarves and the Circle of Magi.”

“I also still think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first,” the other Warden suggested.

“Won’t the Circle of Magi do what the Chantry says?”

“Technically the Circle of Magi is independent,” Alistair pointed out, looking a little sheepish as Falcon raised both brows incredulously, “We don’t know that the Chantry wouldn’t support us, of course.”

“You truly believe that?” Morrigan’s scorn was echoed in the other mage’s own skeptical look.

“If we speak to the First Enchanter, he should see that his responsibility to the Grey Wardens supersedes anything the Chantry – or even Teyrn Loghain – might have to say about it.”

The treaties _did_ compel the Circle to aid them but without proof that the ‘rebel’ Wardens and their allies could survive Loghain’s politics he doubted that either Irving or the Knight-Commander would be willing to listen to _him_ on that matter.

“Where do we find Arl Eamon?”

“He’ll be at Castle Redcliffe, in the far western part of Ferelden next to the mountain passes. If he isn’t there, someone will be able to tell us where he is.”

“Alright,” he nodded, letting out his breath.

“Then you’ve got a plan?”

 “We’ll go to Redcliffe first, but…” he trailed off uncertain - “Alistair – for now, I think you should get us the equipment we need…I have no idea what we _do_ need.”

The mage sighed, tugging at the braid by his ear. They were looking to him to lead them and he didn’t know what to do. But he was an elven mage, his leadership would only last until Alistair was on his feet again, the humans they would have to interact with would look to the other Warden as the leader of their strange little group.

His jaw set uncomfortably as he looked at the chantry – it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go there for news and perhaps help – most Chantries had equipment stores for their Templars and Alistair could use a decent shield and all three of them could use the lyrium.

“Also – go to the Chantry. Find out what you can there, and get what you need.”

Alistair gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder as he passed by.

Morrigan eyed him imperiously as they descended the steps and Falcon skirted them carefully around the Templar at the gate – neither mage needed to draw more attention to themselves than they already had. Morrigan was an apostate – and he wasn’t sure that his Grey Warden status protected him from that label when they didn’t know if the Chantry had sided with Loghain or not.

They’d have to go to the tavern to hear some of that news, he supposed, making his way over the foot bridge.

He glanced back at Morrigan just in time to watch her feed a strip of dried meat to Loopy whose stubby tail was wagging fiercely enough it made his entire body wiggle.

Falcon hid a smile, turning quickly – if Morrigan caught him watching her do something as adorable and person-like as spoiling the company’s mabari she’d only be more acidic the rest of the day as if to prove that she didn’t actually have a soft heart under those feathers.

He pat the dog on the head as he held the door open for her and Loopy to go in ahead of him. Regretting the decision to come here as a group of armored men stood from their table and approached.

One held a sheet of paper, looking down at it before looking at him closely.

“Well. Look what we have here, men. I think we’ve just been blessed,” he smirked tucking the paper away in his belt.

“Didn’t we spend all morning asking after an elf by this very description? And everyone said they hadn’t seen one,” another soldier asked, an equally predatory glint in his eye that made Loopy rumble lowly – the Mabari’s head lowered and teeth bared.

“Seems like we were lied to.”

“Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble,” one of the Chantry sisters approached, her tone measured but sweet, clearly meaning to attempt to placate the soldiers. “These are no doubt more poor souls seeking refuge.”

“They’re more than that. Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.”

“Let’s talk about this before things get out of hand,” he said – the tavern was crowded – if he and Morrigan were forced to start flinging spells there was a good chance that someone else would get hurt. He’d already killed once with his magic that day, he didn’t wish to do so again.

“I doubt he would listen. He blindly follows his master’s commands,” the sister advised him, her tone almost resigned as she slid her hand to her dagger.

Those words in a honeyed Orlesian accent would be enough to make any Ferelden’s nose twitch – and the soldier was enraged by them:

“I am not the blind one! I served at Ostagar, where the Teyrn saved us from the Warden’s treachery! I serve him gladly! Enough Talk! Take the Warden into custody. Kill the sister, and anyone else who gets in the way!”

“Right,” his friend said, drawing his weapon. “Let’s make this quick.”

Magic in confined quarters – especially from two mages of his and Morrigan’s caliber with a rogue and mabari keeping the swordsmen from combine near enough to strike was devastating.

The lead soldier, teeth chattering from the last ice spell that Falcon had hit him with – keeping away from lightning out of worry he might strike a by-stander, not that Morrigan had shown such restraint with her own magic, threw down his sword:

“All right, alright! We surrender!”

“Good,” the Orelesian Chantry rogue sheathed her dagger – there was no blood on it and her opponents were all incapacitated but not dead. “They’ve learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting now.”

Even Morrigan’s victims would be able to limp away from the fight. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing – Wardens do what they must…don’t they and it was to their advantage that Loghain not have proof of where they had been.

“I don’t want them reporting to Loghain,” he murmured as he shifted his grip uncomfortably on his staff, his eyes cast downward with thought.

Fear widened the captain’s eyes and he threw up his hands, tears spotting his cheeks: “Please wait!”

“They have surrendered! They were no match for you!” the sister sounded angry at the implication. “Let them be!”

Falcon looked up at the human and then slid a few steps to the side, signaling for Loopy to stop his growling warnings and let them pass as well: “Start running. Now.”

“Y-yes…thank you! Thank you!” They collected their wounded comrades and fled the inn as quickly as they could.

Which left the nosy Chantry sister to deal with.

“I apologize for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help.”

“I appreciate the help,” he answered, taking the time to observe her more closely. She was clad in Chantry-style robes, with short red hair. She was pretty – the sort of woman that Jowan would’ve tripped over trying to talk to.

“I am glad you found it in your heart to offer those men mercy,” she smiled. “Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the chantry here in Lothering. Or I was.”

“And…is there something you wanted from me?”

“Those men said you’re a Grey Warden. You will be battling the Darkspawn - that is what Grey Wardens do. I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get. That is why I’m coming with you.”

“They were mistaken – I’m no Grey Warden,” being a Grey Warden was too dangerous and if there was a bounty some fools would try for it.

There was something about this woman that reminded him of Zevran – and it wasn’t just her skill with a dagger, which was well above what one _usually_ found with those involved in the Chantry.

“But…oh, I see,” her eyes lit up with laughter, a smile playing across her face that belonged more at a tea party than the aftermath of a tavern brawl: “Of course. Shall we move on, my completely ordinary and unremarkable friend?”

“Why do you even want to help?”

“The Maker told me to.”

Orlesian, religious _and_ crazy. If the Maker existed he had a strange sense of humor. He needed to find a way to get rid of her, gently.

“Can you, uh…elaborate?”

“I-I know that sounds…absolutely insane – but it’s true!” Well at least she _knew_ she sounded insane, that was always a step in the right direction. “I had a dream…a vision! Look at the people here. They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos – the Maker wouldn’t want this. What you do, what you are _meant_ to do, is the Maker’s work. Let me help, please.”

He hesitated - a Maker that cared about people’s suffering and would want it brought to an end…that wasn’t the Chantry teachings he was accustomed to. The Chantry he knew was a cold, cruel thing and most those involved were either like that or had been dragged into it against their will as children.

Something about her earnest belief that the Maker – if he existed – would care made him change his mind. Besides, she could clearly fight and they were desperately hurting for allies. As Alistair had said about Morrigan – the Wardens took help where they could find it.

“Very well. I will not turn away help when it is offered.”

His acceptance clearly startled Morrigan who had been watching in silent, but clear disdain until that point: “Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought.”

She went ignored by the red haired sister though who smiled: “Thank you! I appreciate being given this chance! I will not let you down.”

“That’s fine…” he said awkwardly before looking to the mabari, “Can you go fetch Alistair to the gates?”

The Ferelden hounds were supposed to be smarter than the average dog. Surely he could find one Warden in a small town, right?

Loopy woofed in confirmation and went out the door once Falcon had opened it, hurrying back across towards the Chantry while Falcon headed in the direction of the gate where some Chasnid and a farmer were having their ‘debate’ ‘mediated’ by a Templar.

A low voice speaking in foreign, but not entirely unfamiliar, tones caught his ear – “Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaam esaam Qun.”

Curious as to who was speaking Qunlat in a tiny Ferelden village he approached the cage. The man inside was hornless – something that made Falcon hesitate over, his skin was grey though and his features of a different cast than with a human.

As he came to stop in front of the cage the being in side fell silent, observing him with a critical, intelligent gaze.

“You aren’t one of my captors,” he decided at last. “I have nothing to say that would amuse you, elf. Leave me in peace.”

From behind his shoulder Leliana offered an explanation for the man’s imprisonment: “The Revered Mother said he slaughtered an entire family – even the children.”

“It is as she says. I am Sten of the Beresaad – the vanguard of the Qunari.”

 “I am Falcon. Please to meet you.”

“You mock me. Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. Though it matters little now, I will die soon enough.”

“This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as prey for the Darkspawn. If you do not see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.”

He glanced back – Morrigan speaking of mercy was surprising, but the first part – a use for the Sten had more potential. Even if he couldn’t agree with her calling a person a creature. That just seemed rude.

“I suggest you leave me to my fate,” the warrior commented.

 “Are you guilty of the murders?”

“Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I am responsible for the deed? However I feel, whatever I’ve done, my life is forfeit now.”

That…wasn’t an answer.

“Capturing you must have been difficult.”

“There is no difficulty in capturing prey that surrenders.”

“You…didn’t resist?” This was a _warrior_ , a Qunari warrior could easily match any Templar assigned to a Chantry in a poor Ferelden village, and for any of the Ferelden knights that might have been left in the area when their lord answered the call to Ostagar, certainly.

“I waited for several days until the knights arrived.”

Well, that _was_ the answer to his question, but not the answer to the intention behind the question. He almost suspected the Qunari was being sarcastic with him, except his face and voice had remained completely level.

“Why?”

“Because I wished to.”

“Odd thing to wish for.”

“Either have an enviable memory, or a pitiable life, to know nothing of regret.”

Falcon stopped and sighed, perhaps he was prying too much into the stranger’s life. “Would you seek atonement?”

“Death would be my atonement.”

It had been a long few days but why did _everyone_ seem dead set on dying as a way to make up for their sins? It solved _nothing_ except the next meal for the carrion crows. Falcon reached up to massage his temple before lowering his hand and looking at the warrior – “There are other ways.”

“Perhaps. What does your wisdom say is equal to my crime?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. How was _he_ supposed to know?

“Then we are where we began.”

“Sorry to have bothered you, Sten of the Beresaad.”

He started to turn away when he caught the look on Leliana’s face, it was sad – pitying. There was an understanding in them. Almost as if she wished to see the cage destroyed.

“To be left here to starve, or to be taken by the darkspawn…no one deserves that fate, not even a murderer,” she explained when he looked at her.

With a sigh he turned to face the Sten again, “Would you face the Blight?”

“…you are a Grey Warden, then?” there was surprise in his voice and Falcon could feel the Qunari reexamine him, as if trying to figure out if his initial assessment had been incorrect somewhere. “Even my people have heard legends of your Order…though I suppose not every legend is true.”

Alistair had approached now with Loopy leading the way, he eyed the caged qunari and Leliana with curiosity.

“Your fellow Warden seems to be recruiting,” Morrigan said by way of explanation.

Falcon gave a shrug and looked at the lock, held his hand out and a burst of fire melted it. Fire wasn’t his favored elements but it was too easy to electrocute someone in a metal box and if he just froze it the lock would still require a force to break it.

That wouldn’t make his point.

The qunari’s eyes had widened as the door to the cage swung open and Falcon stepped back.

“Saarebas.” Fear was thick in his voice and movements.

“Yes,” Falcon replied, raising his chin and meeting the much taller man’s gaze with what he _hoped_ was a challenging stare. “Now, will you follow us against the Blight?”

The Qunari frowned a little before replying: “I will follow you into battle. In doing so I shall find my atonement.”

“And if I don’t lead you to your atonement?”

“Then I will find it myself,” the warrior replied. “May we proceed? I am eager to be elsewhere.”

“Alistair – I think we’re going to need a few more supplies,” Falcon told the warrior, ruefully.

Later after spending the day running errands to earn money to pay for supplies and armor as well as just to help – to Morrigan’s and Sten’s combined ire – they settled into camp. A bed roll was a blessing after weeks of shivering on the ground. As was a tent.

They’d also bought soap and all those things needed to get properly cleaned – though Loopy had whined rather plaintively at the sight of the soap on the rope as he’d brandished it threateningly at Alistair earlier.

He took first watch and took the time to breathe, turning Solona’s ring over in his fingers.

Leliana emerged from her tent and took a seat next to him, quiet and dressed in the plain shirt and pants that went beneath the leather armor that they had found for her to wear into battle.

“Who was she?”

“Wait, what?”

“The ring, it was a favor from a woman, no? A lover perhaps.”

“No – I mean, yes, kinda, not a lover,” he frowned. “Solona she was – _is -_ a friend. We grew up in the Circle together, she’s like a sister. She was with the king’s army at Ostagar, as a healer. I don’t know if she escaped.”

Leliana’s expression softened from her teasing, and she nodded, “Perhaps the Maker will watch over her?”

“You really believe – don’t you?” he asked the strange red head, directing the conversation away from Solona and the damned grief that threatened to break whenever his thoughts lingered too long. “You’re not one of those who says the Chant like its empty – something to use for your own means.”

“The Chantry should be a place of comfort and hope – but it is not always. Too many would use the chant for their own petty ambitions,” came the wry admission. “Your time in the Circle soured you on Andraste, then?”

“I can recite most the Chant but I don’t think I could believe in a god that demanded I spend most my life imprisoned simply for what I am,” he paused, meeting her eyes: “The way you described the Maker earlier…can you tell me a little more about what you believe?”

Leliana smiled a little and obliged – he was sure that she could see that he was distracting her from asking too many questions about him but she was kind enough to let him divert the conversation. Nothing about her was really adding up but where he would have to be wary of Sten he didn’t think she presented a danger the way the big qunari might come to.

Eventually though she sent him to bed and he slept and _dreamt_ for the first time since his Joining.

The voice that wasn’t a voice called through his blood and he saw the great draconic creature scream out in agony and fury before it turned one of its burning eyes to him. It could _see_ him – he could hear it, a call louder and harder to resist than any demon’s whispers.

He gasped as he shot out from sleep and stumbled from his tent to find Alistair on watch, Loopy lazily chewing a bone beside the former Templar.

“It…it seemed so real,” he said, going to sit beside his fellow Warden.

“Well it is real, sort of. You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the Darkspawn. That’s what that dream was,” the former Templar kept his gaze turned away, prodding at the fire. “The Archdemon it…”talks” to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That’s why we know this is really a Blight.”

As if he didn’t have enough nightmares to contend with, he frowned, picking up a pebble and freezing it in his hand. Something to do while he thought.

“These will happen a lot?”

“It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out,” Alistair explained. “Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary for me at first, too.”

“What, you weren’t just worried that a demon was taking possession of me in my sleep?” he teased.

Alistair frowned in a way that made him regret the words.

“Alistair? Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners,” he smiled. “Why don’t you help me get breakfast started?”

“You know they don’t teach us to cook in the Circle,” he warned.

Alistair laughed, “I don’t know how to cook properly either, don’t worry. I’m sure we probably won’t kill them.”

 


	16. Leliana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-Typical Violence, Major Injury

The journey to Redcliffe from Lothering took them on foot through the Hinterlands. This part of Ferelden had never truly recovered from the Orlesian occupation, many of the roads left damaged and in rough repair and the countryside was hunted by trouble. Bandits, bears, a particularly nasty tempered drake.

In addition while Sten and Alistair were soldiers – she and Falcon were not. She did better than the younger of the two mages (it was not uncommon for Morrigan to range ahead of them as a bird, floating on the winds rather than walking with them) but her skills were those of a bard, more accustomed to running cities or dancing than trekking rough Ferelden wild lands.

Falcon was proving to be an interesting companion.

The elf was curious about everything, and willing to listen to her stories. He was fond of his companions, and had taken to – when he wasn’t too exhausted – sketching by the firelight and keeping company with whoever was on watch. It’d only been the night before she’d convinced him to show her what he had drawn.

Most had been sketches of places they’d passed – one rather amusing doodle had involved Alistair sitting triumphant on a pile of poorly rendered cheese, the archdemon crushed beneath the weight of the dairy. The half-done sketch of Antiva City’s docks had been a little surprising.

 “Did you find the weather in Antiva much more preferable than Ferelden?”

“I have never been to Antiva. Though I’ve seen pictures of Rialto Bay in a book the Circle had. I always thought it was rather beautiful.” Falcon looked at her out the corner of his eyes, his jaw doing that slight tightening and his lips doing that downward twitch that they had when he’d lied in the tavern about his being a Grey Warden.

“Oh, it is _lovely_ ,” she smiled, giving herself a fond air of memory. “And the Antivan accent is just darling. I knew a girl from Antiva - wicked tongue that one.”

Where Alistair had not realized that much of her attitude was an affect from the Game she wasn’t sure that Falcon was quite as unaware of how much of it was an act. He’d already pieced together that she had been a bard from the scant little she _had_ revealed about herself.

Falcon glanced over and smiled a bit: “I have never met an Antivan.” He paused before adding, “Do you miss much about Orlais?”

“I miss Val Royeaux,” she smiled, telling him of the grand city as they walked. Before the Wardens had to face the politics she would have to teach Falcon how to play the Game. He and Alistair were both Ferelden, and for all Falcon had that tell he was the more capable liar of the two.

“ _Shoes_?” he sounded incredulous – ah well, if she was to teach him to lie teaching him how to dress properly may as well go into it. At least he had abandoned the robes typical of a mage, adopting leather armor not dissimilar from her own.

“Well…they’re shoes. They’re pretty, some of them anyways,” she told him, putting a slightly scandalized note to her voice. “When I left Orlais, the fashion was shoes with delicate, tapered heels and embellishments in the front – a ribbon perhaps, or embroidery. In soft colors of course – it was spring.”

He gave her a look that might have been more appropriate if she had spouted a second head but a woman had rushed up to Alistair on the road and so whatever response he’d had to Orlesian fashion was left unsaid. It would have been typically Ferelden so perhaps that was for the best.

“Oh, thank the Maker! We need help! They attacked the wagon – _please_ help us! Follow me! I’ll take you to them!”

The woman wasn’t nearly breathless or panicked enough for the act to be believable. Nor did she have any of the blood splatter on her clothes one would assume that someone who’d escaped an ambush on their caravan might have.

“Al – do you sense darkspawn?” Falcon asked as the woman hurried back the way she had come.

The Templar shook his head.

He nodded, and then a chill overtook the edges of their weapons – a biting cold that would amplify the damage done and seep into their opponents – chilling them to the bone. It was a nifty trick but one Falcon had only produced the one time against a _Drake_.

That was all that Alistair needed to realize his brother-Warden was serious, as his expression shifted from worry to something more concentrated.

Morrigan seemed bored, but her gold eyes were sharp. Sten looked uncomfortable. He and Falcon did not get along – the mage let Alistair do most the talking with their qunari companion.

Falcon nodded and then took the lead, following the woman towards the narrow ravine that was perfect for an ambush. Might as well jump into it now they knew it was there, no?

It was a very poor ambush though, the woman approached a blond elf who stood waiting by the overturned wagons at a pace far too leisurely to be someone who was endangered. A terrible actress, really. Elegant curved tattoos on one side of his face, and a darker complexion than was common among Southerners.

“ _You_ ,” Falcon’s voice was a strangled whisper as he caught side of the elf and stiffened in fear and confusion. “What-”

_He knows him_ , she realized. And he never expected to see him here.

The other elf gave no similar sign of recognition, signaling his men to emerge from hiding and line the ledges above them – archers, the woman had grabbed a staff from the wagon which meant she was likely an apostate.

The crack of the tree to their left cracking as it fell made her look up, she grabbed Falcon and dragged him from its path.

Both hit the ground as the assassin declared: “The Grey Wardens die here!”

Falcon was trembling as he forced himself back to his feet – “He’s a Crow, Leliana. Don’t let him near Alistair.”

Battle gave no time for questions – but she set herself and began to shoot at the elven assassin. He certainly _moved_ like a Crow, one far better than the amateurish trap that this was.

Falcon – even unsettled as he was - and Morrigan made quick work of the archers positioned above them before any could attack while Alistair zeroed in on the attackers’ own mage, his Templar abilities cutting her off from her ability to spell.

She lost the elf in the confusion of battle only to see him move out from the shadows near Falcon.

She drew her bow back – meaning to kill the blond – but Falcon froze, a ball of deadly lightning dying in his fingers even before the assassin’s blade had found a weak spot in the Warden’s armor. Ice flared up and exploded between them, the blast sending both elven men flying away from one another.

Falcon struggled back to his feet, one hand on the wound, to finish the battle but the blond elf stayed down.

When her arrow had sprouted from the last of the attacker’s and the fight was done she hurried to Falcon, hoping it wasn’t too late. An elf-root potion would not aid against whatever poison a Crow might have spread on his blade.

And there was _definitely_ poison there.

Falcon staggered into her as she neared, “Don’t…don’t kill him, please.”

“Are you crazy?” Alistair demanded.

“Don’t,” Falcon repeated, and struggled against Morrigan’s attempt to examine the injury.

“Cease this foolishness,” the dark haired apostate hissed. “You are injured you great fool.”

“We won’t kill him,” Leliana promised, her tone soothing. “Just rest and let Morrigan attend to you.”

She wasn’t sure how much the elf had heard since his weight sagged against her, unconsciousness claiming him.

Alistair frowned, “Why did you tell him that?”

“He wouldn’t rest otherwise,” she said, helping Morrigan get the armor pulled away. “If he lives he may be able to tell us who it was that sent him, no? For now we should tie him up, and I need to see his dagger.”

Luck was with them for once. A sheltered cave was nearby, one large enough to provide shelter, though they also pitched their tents inside to provide each other with much needed privacy.

With Morrigan’s magic they had not lost one of their only two Grey Wardens. He remained feverish, fighting off the poison still even with the antidote that she had been able to provide. Thank the Maker it had been a common one that she was familiar with from her time with Marjolane.

Falcon had added yet another scar to his already impressive collection but he would live.

Perhaps they should consider putting him in heavier armor like Alistair and Sten wore? He was powerful enough and she knew that most knight-enchanters, and that was what some of his training had leaned towards for him to be able to wear armor at all, often wore heavier equipment.

Alistair had been shaken by the near loss of his fellow Warden and so paced angrily and cast dirty looks to where the prisoner was bound and silent – still unconscious from the blast of magic that had rendered him so.

Morrigan remained quiet, attending to the other mage’s injuries and the lesser hurts that the others had received. The witch’s eyes lingered on the assassin from time to time – a look so full of pain that it made her heart ache for the acerbic apostate even if she did not understand _why_ Morrigan might wear that expression.

The mabari lay beside Falcon on the other side, his intelligent eyes focused on the Crow. She could almost imagine that the dog seemed confused or even offended by the attack.

She wished Falcon would wake – she wanted answers. How did a young mage with little experience outside the Tower recognize a Crow when she herself had not yet put it together?

**_I_** _have never been. I have never **met** an Antivan. **You**_ – with an expression like his world had just fallen out from beneath his feet.

It wasn’t that he could recognize Antivan Crows.

It was _one_ Crow.

The Maker had a cruel sense of humor, did he not?


	17. Falcon

The red head giggled delightedly as she climbed up the bow of the shoe, using the sparkly sequins to hoist herself ever higher. She was about half way up its height, with a good fifteen feet more to go before she reached the top.

Leliana really did enjoy shoes _that_ much didn’t she? It wasn’t part of her slightly air-headed and frivolous personality that she assumed when out of battle. He was certain about a few things with Leliana – she truly believed in the Maker, that she wanted to help, and that she _wanted_ to be kind-hearted.

He was _pretty_ sure she’d been a Bard prior to her time as a Sister but hadn’t found a reason to confront her on that matter yet.

Still her delight at climbing the baby blue ribboned-and-jeweled shoe with a tiny tapered heel was confounding. She couldn’t _really_ like shoes that much.

A burst of laughter he recognized, though it missed its usual cruelty, drew his eyes away from his shoe climbing friend. Morrigan ran with the wolves, a wolf with markings like that of the elf whose nightmare he had found after his Harrowing ran beside her, pressed against her side. Its green eyes never leaving her as they ran free through the woods.

“Falcon! Come, join us!” he turned to find Alistair offering him a piece of cheese, Loopy laying beside him. A veritable mountain of cheese and sausage at their feet.

He smiled, going to step towards them when a figure was in his way.

Brown eyes he was used to watching but never being seen by locked on him, and he felt the knife punch into his gut. _He’ll kill them, I can’t let him kill them._

Ice flooded his veins, burning them and then his Voice was falling back, the world around them falling into darkness.

His eyes opened and he uttered a soft groan - his side ached, he could smell the scent of elfroot heavy in the air around him, and his legs felt like they were weighted down. How many times this year was he going to end up nearly dying?

He was getting a little tired of it.

Morrigan’s cat-gold eyes sharpened on him and she gave a little relieved smile before she apparently remembered she was still angry at him because it vanished, replaced by her most imperious look, “So the fool awakens at last.”

“Thank you, Morrigan,” he rasped, struggling to sit up and place together what happened.

A pair of strong hands helped him do so - Alistair had come to his side.

“I have healed your injury but you need more rest,” Morrigan informed him before she gathered her herb bag and stalked across the cave to where her own tent was set up, vanishing inside.

Sten was at the mouth of the cave, apparently on watch. Leliana attending to the fire and cooking. The weight on his legs shifted and he smiled at Loopy, scratching the top of the Mabari’s chiseled head.

Everyone seemed to have survived the ambush, relatively unharmed with the exception of himself as well.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Just a day. Leliana said you’d need that long to sleep off the poison,” Alistair said. “Do you think you feel up to talking to the prisoner?”

Falcon’s brows furrowed – _prisoner_? Why’d they take a prisoner..?

“It can wait if you don’t – he’s waited this long, and I don’t think he’s getting out of the ropes Leliana put him in…she’s kinda scary for a Chantry Sister.”

“Wait, we have a prisoner?”

“You kept begging us not to kill the assassin, it was weird you even knew he was still alive. You ice-blasted him across the battle field.”

“I don’t remember that,” he admitted sheepishly. He’d been injured, he could remember that, and he knew the wound had been left by Zevran.

That explained why his pains were mostly only physical as well – there was no deep wound echoing from the place from which the sparks of his magic sprang like there should have been if his Voice had been killed.

Alistair fixed him with a look, “When people try to kill you you’re not supposed to protect them, Falc. What were you thinking?”

“Not really sure whatever that was qualified as ‘thinking’,” he admitted. “So, what do we know about this assassin so far?”

“Leliana talked to him a bit,” Alistair cast the subject of their conversation a thunderous look. “His name is Zevran, apparently, and he’s a Crow from Antiva.”

“Loghain sent all the way to Antiva for the two of us? I thought he was rather xenophobic.”

Alistair laughed, “Oh, no, sneaky nasty Antivans with pointy knives are fine, it’s just _Orlesians_ that he doesn’t like.”

“Well, to be fair, the mask thing is kind of weird,” Falcon grinned.

Leliana snorted as she came over with a bowl she handed to him, “Fereldens. What will we do with you?”

“Teach us how to cook?” he put on his best ‘No, I wasn’t the one who froze Ser Templar’s boots to the floor’ smile as he looked at the contents. Porridge, of some kind, with honey and it smelled _good_. He ate with typical Grey Warden gusto, his stomach sure to remind him that while he’d slept it had missed dinner.

“Will you talk to our guest when you are done?” she asked.

Falcon, spoon in mouth, nodded. He hoped that the cold-fear that shot through him at the idea wasn’t obvious. Or if anyone saw it they would assume it was trauma from his injury and not what it actually was.

Zevran was Antivan. And Antiva was far, far to the North.

The possibility that they would _actually_ meet had never been weighed.

Ferelden was a cold, distant backwater interesting only in its fierce independence, the deep-set (and well-deserved) hatred of Orlais and it was supposedly Andraste’s homeland. Their politics were tame, their manners uncouth, and their dogs highly valued.

There was nothing of interest here for the Crows.

Except, apparently, Wardens.

His appetite fell off and he stared grimly into the porridge instead. His side ached, echoing the hallow hurt in his chest. His heart was beginning to beat faster, panic flaring through him. Ice frosted what he touched, and he quickly put the bowl and spoon down before his magic could cause them to crack with the cold.

“Let’s get it over with,” he told his comrades.

Alistair helped get him to his feet though Falcon wasn’t sure he actually required the aid. Morrigan was a better healer than she gave herself credit for – no Solona or Wynne but he very much doubted they’d stay injured long with the prickly witch in their company.

Leliana collected the near-frozen bowl quietly, making no more comment on the magic flaring up than she had his recognition of the Crow.

Gold-touched eyes watched the Wardens’ approach from where he was bound. His ankles and wrists bound and staked to the ground. A slow smile spread across the assassin’s face, watching them.

“So we speak at last,” the assassin smiled by way of greeting. His eyes flicked briefly to Alistair but set on the elf. A curious look softening his gaze only briefly before the Crow’s playful, arrogant mask slid back into place.

“We have some questions,” Alistair glowered. His tone with a rumble of anger behind it that made Falcon glance at him – only just then realizing how his fellow Warden would’ve felt at nearly losing the only other one there.

“Ah, let me save you some time – if the lovely lady has not told you already,” the man smiled though it was a cautious one. “My name is Zevran, Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”

_Failed at killing us or getting yourself killed?_

Falcon stayed quiet, it took him a moment to realize Alistair’s lack of response had to do with that he was waiting for _him_ to interrogate the assassin. He needed to do this, he had to pretend that his heart wasn’t doing confused, painful twists in his chest as it tried to sort out the fact that his Voice was there and _why_ his Voice was there.

“I’m rather happy you failed,” he said at last – the words were meant to be lighter than they came out.

“So would I be, in your shoes. For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn’t it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one’s budding assassin career.”

“Who hired you to kill us?”

“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that’s it.”

Both brows went up slightly – he knew Zevran wasn’t nearly that forgetful, nor would he have forgotten who had hired him. The uncertainty was meant to make him seem less dangerous, maybe?

“You’re loyal to Loghain?” Alistair glared.

“I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine, you threaten his power, yes? Beyond that, no, I’m not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.”

“And now you’ve failed at the service?” Falcon asked – maybe there _was_ a way to save his idiotic broken hearted other-half from his fellows…he was the leader of this merry misfit band after all. He got to say who joined and who did not.

“Well that’s between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself.”

“Why tell us all this?”

“And why not?” a soft half-chuckle in the Crow’s voice. “I wasn’t paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely.”

“There’s no reason to trust a word he says,” Alistair scowled.

“Oh, very true. And thus there is no reason for me not to tell you everything.” He hesitated, gold eyes moving from Alistair to Falcon. There was a hesitation there, brief but present, “As it is, if you’re done with the interrogation, I’ve a proposal for you. If you’ve of a mind.”

“We’re listening,” Falcon said, curious as to what Zevran was plotting.

“Well here’s the thing, I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me the Crows will for failing. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead.”

Falcon’s brows furrowed in confusion – Zevran _didn’t_ like living…did he? He hadn’t since Rinna’s death. His shoulder itched, the scars from his encounter with the despair demon a reminder of his Voice’s desire to die.

“You must think I’m royally stupid,” irritation bleeding into his tone. That ambush was a disaster and it didn’t take spying on a Crow for five years – _or_ Bard training – to know that it could hardly qualify as an assassination attempt.

“I think you’re royally tough to kill. I’m only _hoping_ that you’re stupid,” Zevran replied before catching himself and added quickly: “That was a joke. Let me rephrase that: I’m _hoping_ you’re the sort of fellow that takes a chance every now and again.” Followed by a slightly nervous sounding laugh and a “Yes?”

So, maybe the plan to make sure Zevran survived his encounter with them would be easier than he expected – he _hadn’t_ expected his Voice to offer to go with them though.

Suppose if you couldn’t die by Warden, death by Blight was really only the next logical step.

“What do you want in return for this service?” he asked, ignoring Alistair’s startled stare.

“Well…let’s see. Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you,” the Crow considered – the encounter with the Wardens wasn’t going how _he_ had expected it to either and this new plan was spur on the moment, wasn’t it? “And somewhere down the line if you should decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?”

He was going to survive a Crow’s (poor) assassination attempt only to be murdered by Morrigan out of spite for this, Falcon knew, but the words were out of his mouth anyways:

“I- _We_ accept your offer.”

“What?! You’re taking the assassin with us now? Does that _really_ seem like a good idea?” shock laced Alistair’s voice and his entire body had done the surprised little tense as he stared at Falcon.

“We could use him,” he pointed out by way of explanation.

“Hmm…all right, all right. I see your point. Still. If there was a sign we were desperate it just knocked on the door and said hello.”

Falcon snorted before he stepped forward to use his belt knife to cut the assassin loose from his binds. He had straightened, instantly regretting the movement as a stab of pain shot through his ribs, and sheathed it by the time Zevran was on his feet.

He reached out and clasped the surprised mage’s forearm and met his gaze - “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation…this I swear.”

 “We’ll see,” Falcon said – eyes a little wide. An electric feeling had jolted through his arm and suddenly he felt guilty for teasing Jowan for acting like an idiot around Lily all that time.

Zevran’s eyes stayed on him as he turned and went back to the fire and sat down next to Leliana. He should rest, he knew, but he didn’t want to try to sleep with his brain still buzzing about the fact that his Voice was there.

The witch fixed Falcon with an imperious glare: “A fine plan. But I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on.”

He gave her a tired smile, “I’m sure that if Alistair’s cooking hasn’t done the job yet then actual poison won’t.”

“Hey! My cooking is terrible, but it’s far from deadly,” Alistair protested. He was gathering a bow and quiver full of arrows. “Loopy, you wanna go hunting with me? Stretch your legs?”

The mabari lifted his head and looked thoughtfully from Falcon over to where Zevran was and then to Alistair then huffed a world-weary sigh as he got to his feet. He was padding out the cave’s mouth, past the ever silent Sten, even before Alistair had finished grabbing his equipment.

Leliana smiled over Falcon’s shoulder as Zevran came to sit hesitantly at the fire with them.

The Crow was still taking their measure, probably still deciding if they would really be useful from shielding him from the Crows if he chose to go with that plan after all.

“Welcome, Zevran,” she smiled. “Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a fine plan.”

“Oh?” the Antivan smirked, taking a moment to look the bard over, “You are another companion to be? I wasn’t sure such loveliness existed among adventurers, surely.”

“Or not.” Leliana’s smile dimmed in annoyance and Falcon caught the glance she was giving _his_ perfectly flat expression – Oh, Knickerweasles, how much _had_ she worked out? He’d expected Morrigan to be the problem with the Voice secret thing not Leliana.

He didn’t stay up for very long, listening to the others talk but his most recent injury and the wear of the road caught up quickly enough he retreated to his bedroll, now moved to the privacy of one of the tents without the need for a healer to watch over him, to try to sleep.

The faint scent of Antiva leather made him open his eyes though he didn’t turn over and he tried to keep his breath the slow pattern of sleep. He didn’t have to look to know that Zevran was there watching him in the darkness.

It was quiet and still beyond the canvas – most his companions must’ve settled for sleep themselves with Alistair on watch. Loopy liked to keep the cheese-loving warrior company in exchange for the blond sharing bits of food with the mabari.

The blond tsked quietly at himself, slipping out as silently as he had entered the tent.

Falcon let out the breath he’d been holding – turning onto his back.

Zevran wanted freedom, and if he could keep him alive long enough to find a reason to live that would be enough…wouldn’t that be for the best? Send his Voice on his way without knowing about the death-sentence of the Blight, or the fact that the Fade had tied them together, or that Falcon wasn’t entirely sure it was _possible_ for him to fall in love with anyone else.

The Antivan didn’t need to know. No one did.

And somehow, he knew, that this was going to be a _lot_ harder than he had any idea it would be.


	18. Zevran

The Wardens were hurrying about making preparations for the upcoming battle. It was no surprise to him that the village was looking at the slight elf mage warden as the leader of the little gang.

The way he and the young Theirin moved it was clear that the rugged Templar was following his counterpart’s lead. A rather amusing twist to the usual dynamic, truthfully. The only one who seemed surprised by his sudden impromptu command of the village defense was the Warden himself.

The flicker of fear near panic in those dark blue eyes had been tucked away as quick as it was there.

The Warden and the little mage that stood behind that façade two different men entirely.

His lack of confidence in what they were doing – for all he could feign a good show – was not comforting to Zevran. When they had failed to kill him and he had woken in the cave after the icy blast a headache dancing across his eyes he had hatched a plan to get free.

The others were distracted – the big Sten helping construct fortifications, Alistair discussing political plans with his ‘uncle’, Morrigan and Leliana were tending to the wounded, even the mutt had found something to do while waiting for the sun to set, playing with the village children to distract them.

The Warden had vanished once everything that might be done to prepare had been.

His own activities had been made even easier by the assumption he was working for the Warden. He’d gathered what little he needed and had slipped up the hill-path that would lead out of Redcliffe once certain his ‘companions’ were not paying any heed.

The knights were at the Chantry below, praying once more.

It left the windmill deserted. Mostly deserted.

Had he a desire to win his way back into the Crow’s good graces it would have been at that point he did so – the Warden sat on the edge of the cliff facing the castle. His shoulders were tight, pulled small as possible, his head tilted forward, and the points of his ears drooped slightly, even his legs were drawn up to his chest.

Raised around too many humans for his ears to be as expressive as most elves’, probably.

He should go – escape this suicidal attempt to save the village, avoid a painful and inevitable death by Blight or rather cross Loghain. He imagined that the Blight would be better. Falling into the grasp of Loghain meant being disposed of by his rat-eyed Arl. There was a man to put the Crow Masters to shame.

He had given his word but what was the word of a liar and assassin?

He had given his word that he would kill the Wardens as well.

It wasn’t as though he wasn’t curious about the dark haired elf, he was a handsome man – a little young for himself but he had never been good at being a good man. It would be an intriguing thing to watch the youthful potential of the Warden bloom into the vibrant power of the Hero he would have to become to survive the days to come.

Preferably from a distance. With a brandy. And many more Wardens between himself and the Archdemon.

Except he was already walking over to the young man in the Windmill’s shadow whose shoulders were too slight to carry the weight the Maker had placed on them.

He didn’t say anything as he sat beside the younger elf. Observing him from the corner of his eye with the pretense he was watching the distant flags on the castle battlements instead.

He watched as Falcon ducked his head enough to scrub tears away and forced his whole body to relax. The Templars with their vigilance like a jealous husband had taught their charge how to hide. Zevran wondered how long it would take for mage to unlearn the habits of a lifetime of imprisonment. Longer than the young man likely had.

That was something he could understand.

A better friend would ask what was wrong and find a way to salve those hidden hurts, but he was no friend to the Warden. And pleasant as Zevran’s own company was he had little doubt that the Warden felt differently on the matter towards him either. Still. A distraction was in order.

“A crow?” he asked, reaching forward to pluck the pendent Falcon had been fiddling with from his fingers to look.

He got a startled little shock as retribution for surprising the mage, enough to make his fingers tingle but no more.

Still he observed the jet carving of the bird that hung on the necklace. A Circle ring the wrong size to belong on his hand dangled beside it. The decorative carving was Dalish-like, some kind of bird. Though truthfully he wasn’t sure what kind. A hawk or a crow.

“It’s not a crow,” the mage grumbled, his cheeks turning a bit crimson, he looked away but his ears were still colored. “It’s a hawk – a _falcon_.”

There must not have been a lot of flirting in that dreary Tower. He was too pretty not to have been popular if there was and he was far too easy to tease. And Zevran found it entertaining to do so during their talks – and Falcon was curious enough that he inevitably drew close to do so.

“Ah, then ‘Falcon’ is not truly your name then,” Zevran smirked a little – it was no grand secret but pretending it was earned a genuine smile from the mage.

“What does it matter? It’s not as if you call anyone by their names anyways,” Falcon asked. “You should go soon if you want to escape. I don’t know how far the undead are roaming but you won’t want to be caught in the wilds by them after dark.”

He glanced up the road that would lead away from Redcliffe, away from this madness and back to spending his time drinking and making love while he waited for the Crows to come after him or he found some other way that suited him to die.

Isabela would still be in Denerim, or perhaps Amaranthine. She planned to stay in Ferelden for a little while before she sailed away from the Blight. He could join her and enjoy his time until someone was sent to kill him for his failure.

Too startled to try to mask his intentions he looked to the young man, meeting the blue eyes that were watching him intently.

There was something magnetic about the Warden, the way he caught the attention.

If he were smart he would walk away. Find a less painful way to die.

_Brasca_. Horrible and painful death at the hands of the Blight it was.

“Why should I?” he asked with a languid stretch as if to show his lack of intentions regarding going anywhere. “I gave my word, did I not?”

_I am your man, without reservation._

The mage’s brows furrowed a little, a curious expression caught on his face. It was gone quick enough but still he had to wonder what it was.

“You did,” Falcon said. “But I would not hold you to it. No one should be forced to fight the Blight. I can’t let you kill Alistair but if you wished to leave, you could.”

He studied the younger man for a moment – perhaps Alistair was right.

Perhaps with this young Warden there was a chance of setting things right.

If they could keep Falcon from crushing himself under the weight of such a burden that would be until he learned to carry it.

From the pack he drew a bottle that had been stolen from the stingy innkeeper – for a man so incredibly cheap it had been remarkably easy to steal from him while he and the Warden had arguing prices for militia drinks.

It wasn’t the best quality but it wasn’t the swill that the man had been passing off as ale.

“Here,” he offered it to the Warden after taking a drink.

He accepted it and wrinkled his nose slightly at the contents, still he took a hesitant sip and coughed slightly as the burning liquid hit his tongue and throat. Teary eyed he thrust the bottle back at Zevran.

“My dear Warden,” he chuckled at the reaction, taking the bottle back. “You’d think you’d never drank before.”

“I _haven’t_ ,” he replied – watching the Antivan take another drink with open suspicion. “Do you actually like the taste of that?”

“I did not think you Fereldens cared for taste. The way you eat Alistair’s cooking,” he smiled. “Perhaps, if we survive the night, I will introduce you to the finer points of drinking.”

The mage smiled a little before looking back at the castle, “That, Zevran, sounds mildly threatening, but I’ll look forward to it.”

They sat for a time, Zevran drinking a little – he would not be drunk when the undead appeared but he needed to keep from thinking how foolish _staying_ was.

“…can I ask you a question?” the mage asked, the air was beginning to cool with the lowering of the sun.

“Oh?” he set the bottle down between them, so the mage could reach it if he decided to try again. “This should be good. Go ahead.”

He opened his mouth as if to ask a question then closed it again, frowning to himself – thinking better of his original intention he instead asked: “Can you tell me a little about Antiva?”

“Oh? You wish to know of Antiva, do you?” he smiled fondly, thinking of his homeland. “The only way to truly appreciate it is to go there. It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this Ferelden.” He didn’t miss the muttered “but its summer” under the other’s breath but he chose to ignore it – it was hardly his fault that a southerner didn’t understand what a summer actually was – and continued: “In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom, or so the saying goes.”

 “You don’t care much for Ferelden do you?”

“It is fine enough with its dogs and its mud. The people are spirited even if they can’t tell the difference between an assassin and a mere killer,” he sighed – for all his numerous complaints regarding the country his time there had not actually been unpleasant. Apart from when a particular mage had rang his head like a bell via exploding ice, and even then he had attacked first.

That slight acquiescence as to Ferelden being ‘not bad’ was enough to make Falcon’s mouth twitch into a smile. It was also when the young man relaxed a little, stretching his legs out forward so his feet dangled off the edge and his shoulders loosened.

“I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City. Tell me, do you come from someplace comparable?”

He watched the mage frown a bit as the options for his answer were weighed in his mind. Zevran knew from overhearing conversations with Leliana Falcon had been from Denerim’s alienage prior to his magic developing and reactions to Morrigan’s taunts regarding the Warden’s Circle status were enough to show he cared no more for the Circle than his counterpart had cared for the Templars.

A slight smirk played across his face, “Of course – my mother was better than any gem.”

The response startled an honest laugh out of Zevran, a smile played across his lips, “You have me there, indeed! I, for one, can make no such claim for I never laid eyes on the woman.” He smiled before humming in consideration, “You know what is most odd? We speak of my homeland and for all its wine and dark-haired beauties and the lillo flutes of the minstrels…I miss the leather the most.”

That statement got met with a laugh and a fond, familiar, sort of smile, “Very odd indeed.”

“I mean the smell,” he said to begin explaining.

This was met with another stifled laugh and the Warden taking up the bottle for another drink, something about the topic was both amusing and nerve inducing for the younger elf.

“For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City’s leather making district. In a building the Crows kept their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates,” he decided to ignore whatever it was about this that made the Warden seem a little odder in the head than usual. “I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home more than anything else.”

Taliesin had been glad when they moved to a different building and larger rooms to be with Rinna. He had hated the smell of the leather district.

The laughter had quieted into a sort of understanding look as Zevran found himself observed by those dark blue eyes, “You sound like you’ve been away for forever.”

“Oh, not so long, I know. It is my first time away from Antiva, the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly,” he admitted, a little of his real heartache bleeding into his voice. The warmth of a hand on his shoulder was comforting and he smiled at the Warden who had placed it there, ready to pull away if the comfort was unwelcome.

“Before I left I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in the store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship,” he smiled fondly – he’d even dreamt of those boots while on the ship to Ferelden. “Ah, but I was a fool to leave them. I thought ‘Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward for a job well done!’ More the fool I, no?”

The Warden smiled a little – recognizing that Zevran was pulling the attention away from his pain – but it was the sad sort, and his eyes were on the castle again. He seemed to want to say something but once more chose a different thing to say instead, with a slight shake of his head at himself: “Your home is still there.”

“True…it’s a comforting thought,” the assassin agreed.

After a few moments of silence he reached over to tuck a piece of errant hair behind one of the other elf’s ears back to where he usually wore it.

“One simply never knows what is to come next. How could I have suspected I would end up defeated by a handsome Grey Warden, a man who then spares my life?” he reached out to tuck one of Falcon’s errant strands of hair back behind the ear where he usually kept them tucked, the dark blush the action and the surprised stare amusing enough, “I could not.”

“’Handsome’?” the question came out unsteady even though it was just one word.

Zevran stayed, leaning close, into Falcon’s space, his eyes on his lips but before he could decide if he would tease or not a surprise “Oh – Maker!” from Alistair who’d come up behind them, surprisingly quiet for a man in full armor and Leliana’s giggling, made him jerk back.

“Tits,” Falcon’s cheeks turned a bright crimson and he turned to look at the others but the two were already retreating, whatever business they had with the Warden apparently could wait.

“Perhaps that was a poor choice of words, true though it is,” Zevran considered, as if he hadn’t been tempted to kiss the mage there, “Do you object?”

He’d have a number of apologies to make if he had misinterpreted the other elf’s stolen glances. And he’d have to find a way to make it clear he hadn’t been attempting to seduce the Warden simply because he owed the man his life.

“I, uh,” the mage hesitated, “No, it’s not that, I mean, it was just unexpected.”

“And glad I am to hear it,” he smiled, cutting off any more stuttered assurances. “Now, if it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to speak more of Antiva. It makes me wistful and hungry for a proper meal.”

The mage nodded, still a few shades too red, as he grabbed his staff up and his helmet, “I should go see what they wanted.”

The Warden was handsome enough, and there was something about the young man that caught the eye, and pulled the attention around him.

He’d have thought his next interest in a man would be strong and burly, perhaps someone like Alistair, or at least more similar to Taliesin. Instead he found himself interested in the slight elf mage with his lightning and his ice and a smile that hid too much but less than he thought it did.

It wouldn’t be anything serious, something to amuse himself as he decided if he truly wanted to die or not. If some part of him hadn’t wanted to live why make the deal with the Wardens at all? Why not kill the pair of foolish young heroes- to-be that first night while they slept?

He had spent long enough watching the mage sleep to know it would have been easy to do. He’d left when the injured Warden had begun to stir.

Now he hadn’t chosen to simply leave though the option had been given to him.

Falcon was young, but he was a mage. There was some comfort in that, most mages only fell in love the one time. The Maker pointed out their ‘true loves’ to them through the Fade, or so the story went. There’d be little risk of leaving the Warden broken hearted at the end of it, should they survive long enough for that to matter.

For now it was best he prepare to fight undead – potentially _flaming_ ones at that – in defense of the meek and innocent.


	19. Jowan

He shrank back from the reaching, grasping stinking claws of the undead corpses – this was it. He was finally going to pay for all his mistakes. The skeletal hand caught on the tattered edges of his sleeve as he threw his hands up over his face to protect it, and with this the creature tried to haul him forward to the bars.

“Get away from me!” he cried out but there was nothing he could do. He was tired, so very tired and everything ached after what Isolde had had done to him. Even if he could have calmed enough to cast a spell he didn’t have the focus to channel the mana into the form of a spell.

The air crackled with the scent of a storm, the temperature in the already cold prison cells plummeting and then a blast of ice engulfed the three undead.

A warrior let out a shout as he slammed his shield into them – shattering one to pieces. Arrows and a ball of lightning brought the second down and from the shadows a man with twin daggers cut down the last.

The blond elf with daggers grinned as he spotted him, “Ah, a live one it seems.” His accent the playful rhythm similar to those he had heard in Gwaren from the Antivan merchants there. There was something about him that seemed…

The big helmeted warrior frowned as he lowered his weapons to a ‘resting’ position but was still ready in case of attack.

“I had figured that much,” the voice sounded amused and all too familiar.

Jowan moved to the bars instinctively, pressing against to try and get a look and there, coming into view beside a female archer was another elf dressed in leather armor similar to the first but he had a mage’s staff in one hand that was still crackling with the familiar power.

Blue eyes widened as he spotted Jowan at the same time Jowan himself exclaimed: “By all that’s holy…you!”

“Jowan?”

Falcon was alive. And here. But most importantly he was alive and safe. Safeish.

He’d worried after what had happened at the Circle. He’d not been thinking clearly and only after his escape had he realized that Falcon would face the punishments meant for him. He’d thought his friend dead.

The elf pulled his helmet off, as if to get a closer look at Jowan without it getting in the way.

“Maker’s breath,” Even if he hadn’t been made tranquil or executed Falcon should’ve been in the Circle or perhaps assigned to work for the Chantry. None of his companions came close to what Jowan imagined a Seeker might look like. “I never thought I’d see you again, of all people.”

“Why would you – you left me to the Templars, remember?” Falcon snapped – the big warrior seemed a little surprised by the statement and his hand on his blade shifted a little. The red haired archer tapped his elbow with the end of her bow - some sign of comfort understood by the mage who flashed her a faint smile. The blond elf studied them both, his expression more guarded than before.

Jowan flinched – knowing Falcon’s temper. It wasn’t turned against friends, not without cause – and he had _plenty_. He didn’t deserve to think of the other mage as a friend after all he’d done.

Falcon closed his eyes briefly before looking to the archer, “Leliana, can you..?”

“Not going to melt this one?” she asked, stepping forward to inspect the lock, it didn’t take her long to undo the door.

Falcon stepped forward, Jowan stepped backwards. The elf’s brows furrowed as he took a look – a _real_ look at Jowan.

“Maker – Jowan, what have they done to you?” there was sympathy in his voice, worry too, years of friendship and loyalty doubtlessly meaning more to the other mage than the pain of Jowan’s betrayal. He was reaching in his satchel for something now.

“What they’d do to all would-be traitors and assassins,” Jowan frowned a little. I wouldn’t be surprised if they sent you here to finish me off.”

Falcon’s eyes jerked upwards, he kept his expression still mostly, a slight frown. There in the tensing of his brows lay the signs of real hurt at the words. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“You might change your mind one you hear – I poisoned the arl. For all I know, he’s dead already.”

“I knew that already – and he’s not dead…not yet.”

The warrior was glaring from beneath his helmet, and Jowan felt certain the weight of a Smite was going to fall on his head followed by the man running him through. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t even a Templar.

Wait – Falcon had said the Arl wasn’t dead. That was…that was good. For once he was relieved nothing he tried to do worked out as planned.

“He’s not? That’s a relief, I can’t tell you how much,” he sighed softly, before seeing the accusation in the eyes of his friend’s new comrades. “Please, I know how it seems! Poisoning the arl…was a terrible thing but I’m not behind everything else happening – I swear!”

“Nervous fellow this,” the daggers-elf murmured to the warrior.

Jowan swallowed, hard, “Before I say anything else, I need to ask a question, you can do whatever you feel you have to afterward but I need to know – what became of Lily? They didn’t hurt her did they? The thought that she might have paid for my mistake…”

“Jowan, you should know that better than me,” Falcon’s brows furrowed.

Of course he should know that – but…he’d been too ashamed to seek her out in the Fade since that had happened.

His friend gave a soft sigh, and his shoulders fell a little – suddenly looking less like the mage warrior who had approached the prison cell and more like the exhausted, tired man that had emerged from the Circle’s prison.

“The Chantry sent her away, I don’t know where,” he said. “They mentioned Aeonar but I don’t know if that is where she was actually sent. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my poor Lily. She must hate me now – what have I done?” he whispered, tears gathering in his eyes as he felt dangerously close to breaking all over again.

Instead he looked up to see the eyes of his old friend on him, caught between sympathy and anger his expression was a hard one to see on Falcon who had previously looked at him as a brother. Maker, how many lives had his foolishness destroyed?

Falcon extended a hand with a slim bottle filled with red liquid – making him think of another cold stone surrounding and a vial filled with blood instead of healing potion. He stared at it blankly for a moment before it was shook at him with slight impatience and he took it.

Drinking helped sooth many of the lingering hurts from Isolde’s early fury.

“So, here we are again, the two of us….what happens now?”

“I don’t know,” was the first reflexive answer before Falcon looked to the door that would lead to the rest of the castle. “Are you responsible for what is happening? You don’t seem possessed.”

“I…” that was fair, he was a blood mage after all. “I know it looks suspicious, but I’m not responsible for the creatures and the killings at the castle. I was already imprisoned when all this began. At first Lady Isolde came here with her men and demanded I reverse what I’d done. I thought she’d meant my poisoning the Arl!” His voice was becoming too quick with his fear now, “That’s when I first heard about the walking corpses. She thought I’d summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe. She…”

Falcon’s eyes were on the injuries – and he knew from his friend’s expression that he already knew what he had to say next. Falcon wasn’t an idiot, and though he spoke of it little his Voice was not a nice person.

“She had me tortured. There was nothing I could do or say to appease her. So they…left me to rot.”

The red haired woman’s expression was one of pity while the blond elf’s expression looked almost bored. The helmeted warrior had looked away.

“Jowan,” Falcon’s voice was kinder than he deserved. Not after everything he’d put his friend through. “Why poison the arl?”

“I was instructed to by Teyrn Loghain. I was told Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden, that if I dealt with him Loghain would settle matters with the Circle. All I wanted was to be able to return.”

Falcon cast him an annoyed look before looking to the big warrior, he shrugged a little.

“Jowan, did you ever meet Loghain? Did he tell you any of this from his own mouth?”

“What?” he stared at his friend a little confused then shook his head, “No, no he didn’t.”

The Antivan elf laughed, “That man barely wished to hire a true assassin. Why would he use an amateur?”

Falcon nodded a little in agreement, his expression distant as he turned scenarios over in his mind. Suddenly Jowan didn’t feel like he could see a trace of the boy he’d grown up with in this thoughtful leader. He always knew Falcon would be better than him but he never thought that he’d not be able to recognize the person he knew in him from one breath to the next.

Whatever had happened in the time that they had parted ways was changing his friend.

“Everything’s fallen apart,” it came as a whisper to himself, the realization that his world would never ever be the one he had thought it’d be again. “I never thought it would end up like this! I’ve made so many mistakes, disappointed so many people.” Lily, Falcon and Solona most of all, he knew as tears fell down his cheeks. “I wish I could go back and fix it. I just want to make everything right again.”

The red head stepped forward, putting a careful hand on his back to console him. Falcon’s attention once more back on his friend, a world of grief that he’d never willingly speak about trapped behind his eyes.

“That’s good to hear you say,” his voice was quiet – but the smile he offered was real. It wasn’t quite forgiveness but it was something close to it. Jowan didn’t deserve it but for the first time in what felt like forever he felt like there might be hope.

“…it’s a start, maybe. I don’t know if anything I do could ever make it right.”

“Do you know what _did_ happen though?”

“Connor…” he started then stopped. He didn’t want to believe that the happy child he’d begun to tutor was responsible for all of this. “Connor had started to show…signs. Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle of Magi would take him away for training.”

“Connor, a mage?!” the warrior exclaimed, “I don’t believe it.”

“She sought an apostate to teach her son in secret so he could learn to hide his talent. Her husband had no idea.”

“How much magic have you taught him?” Falcon had his hand at his neck, playing with the string from which his pendent hung though that was trapped beneath his armor right now.

“Some,” Jowan answered. “But he is still very young, he can barely cast a minor spell never mind something more powerful…at least not intentionally.”

“Grief is very good at calling demons,” Falcon sighed, his eyes flicking to the blond elf before they moved away before he could be caught looking. “Do you think Connor could be responsible?”

“Connor has very little knowledge of magic but he may have done something to tear open the Veil accidentally. With the Veil torn…”

“With the Veil torn spirits could come across and possess corpses and kill,” Falcon concluded for him. “Shite. How old is he?”

“Ten,” the warrior said quietly.

Falcon turned and kicked one of the vanquished skeleton’s skulls hard, sending it flying down the corridor. “Damn it.”

Jowan watched – it had taken him days sitting in the cell to reach the theory that Falcon had, the one that had his friend’s expression so grim when he turned back.

“The arl’s a decent man. I wondered how he could possibly be the threat Loghain said he was, but I did it anyways. I’m such a fool.”

“So, what will you do about it _now_?” Falcon asked him, the stranger back instead of his friend – the one that assessed his potential use in the situation they’d be walking into.

“I’m just sick of running away and hiding from what I’ve done. I’m going to try to fix this in whatever way I can…” he trailed off then met his eyes. “We were friends once – I know I don’t deserve to call you that, after what I did…if it ever meant anything, please… _help_ me fix this.”

Falcon’s expression fell, grief weighing heavily, “I helped you once in the name of friendship.”

“And I betrayed you. And Lily. And I’m sorry, so sorry!” he replied not quite able to meet his friend’s gaze. “Please, Falcon, I’m begging you. Help me try to do one thing right with me life.”

“Jowan…”

The red haired woman looked to him and then Falcon, “He wishes to redeem himself – doesn’t everyone deserve that chance?”

“Oh?” the Antivan asked, the tone was light meant to tease but the look he was giving Jowan was calculating and not very friendly, “Like anyone else we know?”

“ _Everyone_ deserves a chance to redeem themselves in the Maker’s eyes; this man no less than any.”

“He’s your friend,” the big warrior grumbled unhappily. “You know him best…”

“You’re sure you’re okay with him coming, Alistair?” he asked the warrior.

He shrugged a little, “Oh, I’m sure we have more important things to worry about right now.”

“Alright – Jowan, you hang back. You don’t have a staff, no attack magic, understand? You can heal us but otherwise I want you to stay back. We may need you to get Connor’s attention,” that stranger Jowan had seen was the leader of this group, Jowan realized with a shock. “You two, take point. I’m going to cast ‘Flaming Weapons’. Don’t set each other on fire _please_.”

The four cut a swathe through the undead they encountered, rescued one of the maids, and as they stopped to stop to catch their breath in the cellar.

He leaned against the wall by the stairs, listening to the castle beyond while his counterparts poked around for anything of use or value. The lyrium potion was unstopped but he had yet to actually drink any of it.

Jowan came to stand by Falcon, watching the two rogues bicker about a locked chest. The red head was trying to get the other to unlock it while he tried to charm _her_ into doing it.

“He’s Antivan,” Jowan observed.

“He is,” Falcon agreed, finally lifting the potion to his lips.

“He’s _Antivan_ ,” Jowan repeated. “And a rogue. Is he your Voice?”

Falcon flinched at the volume with which that had been said, choked on his lyrium potion, and spluttered a little before he immediately looked to where  was squatting at the lock looking sheepishly up at the other rogue.

“You said you could pick locks!” she was complaining as she shooed him out of the way.

“Why ever would you believe me, Leliana?” he asked sweetly, completely unaware of the mages’ discussion.

“Yes,” Falcon sighed. “He is, but he doesn’t know.”

Jowan’s brows furrowed, “Falc, you can’t hide something like that! He deserves to know, and you deserve to be _happy_.”

The elf fixed him with a look that was somewhere between ‘Watch me’ and ‘I’m not an idiot, Jowan’.  Well becoming an adventurer apparently hadn’t done a thing for Falcon’s stubbornness issues, and he could recognize that he wouldn’t get any more on the topic.

Still…Falcon and his Voice were together. He was sure things would work out.

“How are you here anyways, why aren’t you in the Circle anymore?”

“You remember how there was a Warden visiting?” Falcon asked – waiting for Jowan to nod before continuing, “After you left me for the Templars I was recruited. I’m a Warden now.”

“But the Wardens killed the king,” Jowan’s brows furrowed. “Everyone says so.”

“Darkspawn killed the king. We need to get going or we’ll have more dead nobles than I can deal with today.”

He followed Falcon up to the courtyard where the he and Alistair threw open the gates to permit a company of knights and a tall man with a stern expression, a woman who was clearly an apostate, and a hound who bound happily up to Falcon stubby tail wagging.

It felt like ages since everything had happened but in wasn’t really so long and in that time Falcon had started to piece together the beginnings of…something. The core of the force that would stop the Blight if all went as planned, maybe even the start of a new family if all went well.

Jowan permitted himself one brief smile before they went to face his young pupil in the grand hall.

Falcon didn’t flinch from the demon during the exchange.

And after when the Bann had been returned to his senses Falcon wore that narrowed scowling glare that the elf had always saved for Templars or particularly preachy Chantry initiates for Isolde. When he pointed out that the demon wasn’t physically within Connor Falcon’s eyes widened a little.

“You’re not killing anyone to do this, Jowan,” Falcon snapped, irritation and exhaustion in equal measure in his voice. From what the demon had said he had helped the village fight off the undead _army_ the night before. Even with lyrium potions his mana would be depleated. “The Circle of Magi is not far, they will have enough Lyrium for the ritual.”

“That is an excellent point,” Alistair spoke up.

“The Tower is about a day’s journey across the lake,” Teagan commented.

“But…what will happen here?” Isolde fretted. “Connor will not remain passive forever!”

“Morrigan,” Falcon turned to the dark haired apostate, “You’ll stay here and help Jowan contain the demon. Don’t turn him into a toad, I know it will be tempting.”

The woman, Morrigan, narrowed a pair of eyes the same golden color as a viper’s belly at him – clearly trying to decide if the request was worth heeding. “Leliana, Sten, you’ll stay and help here. If things become too dangerous it will be Morrigan’s decision whether to kill Connor or enter the Fade to face the demon. We should be four days, five at most.”

He waited for the other two to indicate that they agreed before he continued: “I’ll take Al, Zevran and Loopy across to the Tower by boat.”

Jowan watched after the Wardens as they departed. The snake-like apostate standing beside him, observed in a cool tone, “Tis most foolish the way he expends so much effort on saving those who cannot save themselves.”

“He’s always been like that,” Jowan replied, shame making his voice quiet – he’d taken advantage of that protective part of his friend’s nature to get his help with the phylactery and then…

“I cannot fathom why he would think _you_ are worth forgiving,” Morrigan’s gaze was cruel as it focused on him. “Do not think that you can betray him without consequences once more, little man.”

Perhaps Falcon’s Voice being a professional killer wasn’t as odd as everyone had assumed. As a Warden his choice in companions seemed rather…dangerous and these were people who obeyed his friend with very little complaint.

The witch turned to walk away.

Jowan knew he probably wasn’t going to survive this – the Lady Isolde would make sure of that – but it was good to know that Falcon had people doing a better job looking out for him than Jowan himself ever had.

He hoped Solona had had as much luck finding a new home of sorts in Denerim or wherever she had ended up by now.


	20. Alistair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor edits have been made.

He turned the little carved figure over in his fingers, eyes cast on the dark waters the boat they were currently on was skidding over. Teagan had found them the fastest vessel in Redcliffe and a crew to man it to get them to the Tower and back as soon as possible.

Spring had officially given way to what qualified as Summer in Ferelden. For once that didn’t include rain.

Even so the wind blowing across the small sailing ship as it crossed the lake were chilly. Zevran had groused about it and tucked himself into a warm corner below deck, refusing to emerge. As the only of the three not remotely ill due to sea-sickness he had that luxury.

Alistair was fine so long as he stayed above deck. The moment he ventured inside (meaning to check on a certain sneaky-probably-up-to-no-good elf) the cheese from lunch had threatened to make a reappearance and so he’d left the Antivan unsupervised for now.

Falcon had found himself a quiet spot to sit out of the crew’s way and sit, eyes closed and looking even paler than usual. Loopy lay at his side looking bored more than anything. It was a little hard to play fetch on a boat _and_ his person was miserable.

When he was younger he’d used to think there was a monster in the lake that kept it cold all the time and gobbled up anyone who swam too far from shore.

As he studied Lake Calenhad’s dark waters he could almost fancy that great ice creature glowering from far below.

Alistair looked down to the carved statuette in his hand. The woman was in robes, Falcon had claimed she was a mage when he’d given him the statue (then muttered something about a senior enchanter under his breath) but personally he wasn’t so sure. The matronly frown on its tiny face seemed a _lot_ like a Mother.

“Hey, you alright?” he asked, tucking the present away in his pack for safe keeping.

Falcon’s eyes opened to look at him and he gave a slight shrug, “I think I’m getting used to it. A _little_.”

“You want to eat anything?” he offered.

Falcon had been using a lot of lyrium the past two days which he’d noticed early on was an easy way to put his fellow Warden off his appetite and it was beginning to look like it made the blush-when-Zevran-smirks-that-stupid-smug-smirky-smirk thing ten times worse too. Between that and feeding the fish and whatever else may or may not lurk in the lake’s depths on a Warden’s appetite he was a little worried.

Falcon pressed his lips together and Alistair almost fancied he’d gone a shade green at the idea.

“Alright, alright, no food,” he promised. “You doing alright about everything else?”

The mage’s expression turned positively puzzled for a moment, “Oh, my wound. Yeah. It’s healed fine. Morrigan did a good job.”

“No – not with _that_.”

When his friend just gave him a prolonged confused square Alistair snorted – how was it _he_ was the slow one? “Falc, I mean with that mage, the one from the dungeon, not Morrigan, though she’s a scary witch and I don’t get why you like her.”

Falcon laughed a little, before he shook his head, “Morrigan isn’t nearly as mean as she wants us to think she is. She’s hurting right now – and no, don’t ask her about it, and no, don’t try to be nice to her because of it. She’ll see right through you and she’ll blame me for saying something and then she might just turn us into toads until whatever they need Wardens for.”

That first part didn’t sound believable. _Morrigan_? _Nice_? Nuh-uh. He’d sooner start trusting Zevran than believe that the witch was with them for any reason besides her personal gain.

But what kind of hurt could she be suffering that he shouldn’t ask about? Why did Falcon have the same expression that he’d worn when trying to get Morrigan to leave off needling him over his mourning of Duncan?

WAIT A MINUTE!

The damnable elf was doing it again!

This was why it’d taken until Leliana had joined them to find out the story behind Falcon’s recruitment. Even then they’d been given only the scantest of details – he’d tried to help a friend of his and Solona’s escape that friend had been a secret blood mage, and Duncan had saved him from the Templars.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

Falcon cringed a little but with his diversionary tactic having failed he leaned his head back against the railing, his expression the lost one he had worn in the dungeon when he’d first seen who it was in the cell: “I don’t know…”

“You let him out.”

“He knows healing magic.”

Alistair gave him a hard look and perhaps seasickness – well they weren’t _really_ on a sea, so ‘lakesickness’ was more accurate - was the key to breaking the other man’s usual iron clad resolve to not give straight answers on his own feelings because he grumbled beneath his breath before answering.

“Jowan…I really don’t know. I’m still angry at him, Al, _furious_ but he was hurt and alone and he wanted to do something to help,” he said quietly, not meeting his friend’s gaze.

“He poisoned Arl Eamon.”

“Well, we can be glad that Jowan apparently really can’t do anything right,” anger and hurt turned the words too bitter to be taken as a jest.

“…he was close to Solona too, wasn’t he?”

Falcon froze a little, his face looking more ashen as anger was replaced by more hurt, “Shite. Yes, he was - _is_. I need to tell him about-” He faltered, words not coming before he closed his eyes, “About Ostagar. And Anders…I need to tell Anders that she’s - that she’s…”

The first tears were wiped away quickly by the butt of the mage’s palm.

“She should be the one here – I can’t,” the elf’s voice warbled a little, and for the first time Alistair realized he wasn’t the only one struggling with his sense of worth – feeling like he should’ve traded places with someone on Ostagar.

Not sure what he could say – knowing first hand that no words could help with things like this, he just had to be there with Falcon until the pain bled off. He wrapped his arms around the elf and pulled him into a hug.

The other stiffened against the touch but then – finally – let himself cry.

“I’m not a hero or –or anything like that, Al,” Falcon’s voice was muffled against his shoulder, the mage pressing his forehead against it. “I can’t do this – being a Warden.”

“Yeah, you can,” Alistair huffed a little. “We’d be lost without you, Falcon. I’d even be lost and a toad – or a lost, a toad, and Morrigan would have put me in her marshy-marsh toad-stew.”

The choked laugh was a relief.

For a moment he was worried he might have broken his fellow Warden. It wasn’t like he could stroll up to the Tower and go ‘Uh, hi, yes, I’m a Grey Warden and our new Warden Mage seems to be a little broken, think I could exchange him for another?’

Nor would he want to.

Falcon suddenly pushed back, “Al, Al let go!”

He released his arms just in time for his friend to do a turning-dart combination and heave over the railing.

Sympathy written across every line of his face he got up and rubbed the elf’s back. “I hate boats.”

“I thought you wanted to cross the Waking Sea after the Blight ended.”

“Screw boats. I’m getting a fucking dragon and _flying_ across,” the elf replied, letting his head hang in misery.

Alistair laughed - he couldn’t help it, even as he and the water traded places as the focus for the elf’s glare. “You know what, a dragon _would_ be cool,” he conceded. “Would you give me a ride?”

“Depends on how much you’re gonna keep laughing at me and Firebreath.”

“That’s a terrible name.”

“Do you know what would be an awesome name for a dragon?” Falcon asked, turning to sit back down in his previous position.

Alistair lowered himself to sit beside him this time, “Pebbles?”

“What? No. But Pebbles is totally a _griffin_ name.”

“That’s so…you’re _right_! We need griffins, we’re Wardens, aren’t we?”

“Alas, my friend, I feel cheated too. I suppose I can see if I can make Loopy grow wings. There’s probably some crazy Tevinter magic for it.”

The Mabari’s head shot up and he laid his ears back grumbling a warning at his master for the suggestion.

“No? Fine, your loss, imagine all the squirrels you could have caught if you had wings,” the mage told the dog with a laugh.

The Mabari’s response was to shake his head vigorously, get up and trot away from them, heading below deck.

Alistair laughed, “Okay, so dragon names.”

“ _Morrigan_.”

“That’s….you know, that’s almost perfect,” Alistair laughed.

“Al – can I ask you something?” Falcon’s smile faded a little.

He tilted his head a bit – wasn’t like Falcon to ask before prying when he got curious. “Sure.”

“Why not tell us – _me_ – about the prince thing?”

“You never asked?”

Falcon made a face, before sighing, “No, that’s fair, I wondered if you hadn’t trusted me because I thought we were friends but-”

 _Thought_? _Oh no, no, no_.

“We _are_ friends!” he interrupted, his voice gone high with his fear that he might lose the one friend he had – the _first_ proper friend he’d had in years. “I didn’t mean to – it wasn’t supposed to. I-” he stopped and sighed, seeing Falcon’s surprise at the outburst. “Let me explain, please?”

He took a deep breath and then continued once his heart didn’t feel like it was about to leap from his mouth: “Thing is, I’m not used to telling anyone who doesn’t already know. Even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew. And then after the battle when I should have told you…I don’t know.”

He’d been foolish? An idiot? Hoped that maybe it would’ve been forgotten.

“It seemed too late by then. How do you just tell someone that?”

Falcon’s arm looped around him – well mostly – and patted him on the back comfortingly – “I understand. It’s okay, Al.”

He didn’t keep the physical contact long, the elf never made more than brief pats on the arms or back in any sort of comfort or acknowledgement to anyone. Even when he’d been reunited with Solona they’d not embraced nearly as long as he’d have expected after finding out how important they were to one another.

“I…” he’d been expecting more anger for that. If Falcon wasn’t going to kick him for not telling he’d have to berate himself apparently, couldn’t just accept that no one seemed to think he’d done nothing wrong, because that wasn’t how the world work. He always messed something up. “I should have told you anyway. It was important for you to know. I guess part of me liked you not knowing?”

“Bad experiences when people find out?”

“They treat me differently. I become the bastard prince to them instead just being Alistair. I know that must sound stupid to you, but I hate it shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I certainly don’t want to be king. The very idea terrifies me.”

“That doesn’t sound stupid at all, Alistair.”

Oh, the magic. Of course he’d understand. If anyone understood what it was like to be treated differently for something you couldn’t control or help the _elf mage_ would.

“For all the good it does me,” he smiled, relenting on himself a little. “My blood seems certain to haunt me no matter what I do.”

“You _are_ the one that mixed darkspawn into it,” Falcon drawled.

Alistair stopped and laughed – oh, Maker, he had indeed polluted the lineage of Calenhad the Great, the Silver Knight with _darkspawn_ blood. He could just imagine the look on anyone of those stuffy nobles’ faces if they ever found out.

“Fair point,” he said, still chuckling before he added – more to himself, “I guess I should be thankful Arl Eamon is far more likely to inherit the throne…if he’s alright – I _hope_ he’s alright.”

He met Falcon’s eyes and added, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. It was a dumb thing to do.”

Falcon made a face, “Al, you don’t have to apologize – besides, it’s not like I’ve told you every detail about my life story. You know even less about me than I do about you. And it wasn’t a dumb thing to do, you didn’t _know_ me. For all you knew I could have cut my wrists the moment you told me and marched you to Loghain as a present in exchange for my own safe passage out of Ferelden and away from the Blight.”

“That is frighteningly specific, Falc,” he snorted.

Still - Falcon had as good as confessed to having secrets, and he _was_ curious about the conversation he had overheard between the mage and Jowan.

“…you have a Voice?”

Falcon’s eyes widened a little, a reflexive sort of panic, before he nodded, “Secrets just like that. And yes – _most_ mages have Voices.”

“Really…I thought that was all blood-magicy stuff.”

That wasn’t true – that was what the _Templars_ had taught him but there was another wistful memory about a boy he’d known a long, long time ago that came to mind too. He wondered if Aidan had ever gotten to find the slave he’d talked about.

“No…it’s…complicated.” Falcon seemed to struggle with how to explain the idea, “And it’s not like I know a _lot_ , they don’t exactly teach you about it in the Circle. Some reason they think telling people who are already prone to setting off explosions with a wave of the hand or casting spells when they sneeze that the other half of their soul is out there and you’d never have to fear a demon forcibly possessing you if you bond with them is a bad idea.”

“So you don’t have to worry about demons anymore, now that Zevran is here?”

“We’re not bonded – we’re not _going_ to. I’m a Warden. I can’t…” he shook his head. Then leaned his back against the boat’s railing eyes searching the sky like it might have an answer, “He’s…he deserves so much better than that.”

“So what? You’re just going to pretend that the Voice thing is just a delusion? Like you’re not sitting there fretting about how to get him out of the Blight alive but not worrying much about yourself?”

Falcon winced but didn’t answer this time.

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know him,” the other snorted, the attempted wry smile looked sadder and pained rather than the light reassurance Falcon had likely aimed for. “And I’m not planning on falling for him, or anyone – Warden, remember? My heart belongs to duty and sacrifice and vigilance.”

“That’s not the way the motto goes,” he pointed out – cheerfully. He wasn’t sure that love worked the way that Falcon hoped it did, Alistair was _pretty_ sure you didn’t really get a choice about who you fell in love with.

“...we have a motto?”

“You’re pretending not to know the Grey Warden motto in order to distract me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Ass,” Alistair huffed, his tone affectionate. “Alright, I get it. No more Voice-talk but, Falcon? - you _should_ tell him. There’s no way you’re going to keep something that big a secret and it go well.”


	21. Zevran

When they crested the hill above the ferry the Warden narrowed his eyes across the dark waters to the Tower. The young man had been tense since they’d first spotted the Tower around sunset.

His shoulders had gotten tenser than Zevran had seen them before and the elf’s demeanor had grown less bold with each step closer to the great Tevinter structure where he had been raised.

There was something about the behavior that did not seem entirely like the Warden. Even attempting to bait the Warden into conversation with an only slightly embellished tale about a job done during the Satinalia Festival had only gotten a slight smile and a single incredulous glance at one of the more outlandish parts of the story.

It had been a good distraction for Zevran himself, at least – Alistair kept giving him strange looks. Had been since they’d disembarked the ship at the nearby down to make their way up to where the ferry to the Circle was by foot. He couldn’t recall anything he’d done to baffle the Templar so.

Fereldens were more conservative regarding men of his fancies, perhaps, but not so conservative for the foiled kiss by the windmill to be the cause of the sideways glances that were doubtlessly meant to be secretive and sneaky.

“Nervous about going back?” Alistair’s voice broke the silence that had fallen over the company.

“No – well, yes, I am, but it’s just…I don’t know. Something feels _off_ ,” his eyes trailed the tower, before the elf shook his head, as if dismissing some thought. His jaw tensing a little as he continued: “It is probably just nerves. You should go talk to the Templar about getting us passage over, Al.”

Zevran watched after the Wardens as they both headed down the hill, one to study the water’s edge and one to talk with the Templar guarding the boat to get across.

The Warden sat cross legged on the shore. His eyes flicked to the rogue as he approached and there was a shadow of a smile. Still he did less to reassure the rogue than he had attempted to with his fellow Warden.

Zevran sat beside him, watching as the Warden reached out to pluck a sprig full of pink flowers that were growing wild along the shore and spun it between his thumb and forefinger. The air around them was cold as ice slowly climbed the twig, making the flowers twinkle like crystal as they spun.

“The Templars cannot harm you, Warden,” he murmured. “You no longer belong to them.”

The flowers _tink_ -ed as their movement came to a sudden halt.

“…that obvious?”

“Ah, you forget – I had my own gilded cage, did I not?” Zevran smiled a little, turning his eyes out to the pitch black waters of the lake – he knew even with just the light of the moon the Warden’s gaze was on his face and so he made his expression as close to his usual casual flippancy as he could. “Your fellow Warden and myself – we will not allow them to return you to it.”

The Warden’s mouth opened a little, before he smiled a little, his cheeks coloring a little: “Thank you - it’s not just the Templars though... There’s something else…I just don’t know if it is what I think.”

Alistair was coming over now, looking a little frustrated, and Falcon stood again, dropping the frozen flowers to the ground to meet his comrade halfway there.

Zevran waited a moment – wondering at why he’d say such a thing – why he would _mean_ such a thing. He had said ‘we’. He had meant ‘I’.

He stood and joined the Wardens in boarding the row boat to cross to the Circle itself. No one said much of anything – except the Templar in charge of the boat. That man needed to reduce his lyrium usage.

The Templars on the island itself were in full gear and alert, watching the Tower like they expected it to explode, and inside an older man in the armor of a Knight-Commander was barking orders.

“The doors are barred…are they keeping people out or in,” Alistair murmured, his eyes flashing over to the wounded Templar’s.

Zevran’s own gaze stayed on the Warden Mage, whatever trouble these Templars had found would be the trouble their leader was about to direct them straight into. Magical trouble for the magical mage’s tower doubtlessly.

“What’s going on here?”

“I have no time to entertain visitors,” the Knight-Commander turned, though his expression showed his surprise as he laid eyes on the Warden. “Well, look who’s back. A proper Grey Warden now, are we? Glad you’re not dead.”

The Warden’s head tilted to the side just a fraction. And Zev could imagine the way his brows had doubtlessly come together in puzzled confusion at the gray haired man. “You are?”

“Perhaps,” the Knight-Commander replied, “Now we’re dealing with a situation that doesn’t involve you, _Grey Warden_.” The emphasis was probably meant to reiterate that this was no longer where the mage belonged.

“This tower was my home for twelve years, the people here are my family,” he challenged, confusion replaced with a sort of defiance. “I want to know what’s happened.”

“I shall speak plainly,” the Templar gestured towards the great door. “The tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls. We were too complacent – first Jowan, now this.” His eyes fixed back on the mage whose stand had shifted to become more defiant at the mention of the Redcliffe mage’s name. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your role in Jowan’s escape.”

Abominations and demons…no wonder the Warden had been concerned.

“We don’t have time for this – are all the mages become abominations?”

“They may as well have. What does it matter? They took us by surprise. We were prepared for one or two abominations, not the horde that fell on us.”

“And your plan now?”

“I would destroy this tower, raze it to the ground, but I cannot risk more of my men. The doors remain shut and they will protect us for now.”

“You would Annul the Circle?”

“I have sent to Denerim for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment,” the Knight-Commander confirmed – his tone going wary as he studied the young mage.

“You would kill everyone? There have to be survivors still.”

“Falc, the mages are probably already dead,” Alistair’s tone was cautious, somewhere between wary and sympathetic. His fellow turned to fix him with a glare, more out of sorrow than true anger. It was enough for Alistair to hold up a placating hand as he continued, his tone gentler though: “Any abominations remaining in there must be dealt with – no matter what.”

“I’m not saying let the abominations loose,” he scowled at his friend, “But the mages aren’t defenseless – _someone_ must still be alive.”

“If any are still alive the Maker himself has shielded them,” the Knight-Commander spoke. “No one could have survived those monstrous creatures.”

“I’ll look for survivors,” the Warden said, his tone low.

“I assure you, an abomination is a force to be reckoned with, and you will face more than one.”

“And I assure _you_ , Greagoir, I won’t let innocent mages die for this.”

“It is the innocent folk of Ferelden who matter,” the Templar – Greagoir – glowered, “I would lay down my life and the life of any mage, to protect them. No abomination must cross this threshold.”

“None will,” the Warden replied, heading towards the door.

“A word of caution – once you cross that threshold there is no turning back,” these words were directed at Alistair rather than the Warden whose attention was now elsewhere. “The great doors must remain barred. I will only believe it is over if the first enchanter stands before me.”

“I understand, Knight-Commander,” Alistair nodded before he and Zevran both went after the Warden.

“May Andraste lend you courage…” the Knight-Commander murmured after them.

Zevran glanced back but the Warden was already talking to the Templar guarding the entrance to the Circle, and as the great door was slowly pushed open the Warden looked to them both:

“This isn’t your battle,” his voice was soft. “I understand if you would prefer to stay and aid the Templars…”

Alistair shook his head, “This is the right thing to do. If anyone is still alive we’ll save them.”

“I go where you go, my Warden,” Zevran smiled, giving a playful bow to the Warden whose smile though a grim one that promised there would be blood shed was real.

“Good. I don’t think I could do this on my own – never thought I’d be asking the Templars to lock me _in_ to the Tower.”

The faint smile he mustered broke as the scent of death hit them as the great doors opened. Solid wood and metal enchanted with runes and heavily spelled, and the interior deeply scored by an attack by _something_ that had been inside.

The Warden wavered for a moment – he knew what he had to do, but bodies and blood were everywhere and the scents of corpses sulfur and ash and the tang of magic mingled thick in the still air. Alistair placed hand on his comrade’s shoulder, squeezing it firmly enough to drag the elf’s gaze from one of the bodies.

 Falcon set his jaw, and nodded to the warrior in answer to the silent question, and started forward through the Tower that he had once called home.

Zevran caught a glimpse through one of the open doors of two rooms filled with beds. A few toys scattered about spotted with blood and some bodies too small to belong to adults. The Tower above would have carnage worse than this. The victims here were those least able to protect themselves.

It was enough to make even a Crow feel ill.

“Maker watch over them,” Alistair had gone pale as well, where the Warden refused to look too closely at any now the Templar had made the mistake of stopping.

He touched the younger man’s arm and guided him forward, they needed to keep moving. If they dwelled on the dead too long they would only join them.

When they went through another door they found mages – alive and whole as the Warden had insisted some would be – and battling a creature made of pure fire and…anger. He could almost see Taliesin’s glare after –

A mage with snow white hair and an impressive bosom struck the creature down, and turned towards them, just as ready to defend against the new intruders though she hesitated as she saw the Warden.

“You? You’ve returned to the tower? Why did the Templars let you through? Are you here to warn us?”

“Senior Enchanter,” Falcon breathed, “I, uh, told Greagoir that…well, I’m here to help.”

The old woman smiled a little, “I can quite imagine what you told Greagoir. Do the Templars intend to attack us?”

“They haven’t received the Right yet.”

“So Greagoir thinks the Circle is beyond hope. He probably assumes we are all dead,” there was a sadness in the old woman’s voice, a hint of betrayal to her tone. “They abandoned us to our fate, but we have survived. If they invoke the Right, however.”

“Is Irving alive?”

“If anyone could survive this, it would be the First Enchanter. It was he who told me to look after the children,” the woman seemed to have caught on. “I erected a barrier over the door to prevent anything from attacking. You will not be able to enter the tower as long as the barrier holds, but I will dispel it if you join with me to save this Circle.”

“And if the Templars attack?”

“We have little time, however, once Greagoir sees that we have made the tower safe, I trust he will tell his men to back down. He is not unreasonable.”

The elf mage hesitated before nodding his agreement.

“Petra, Kinnon…stay here and look after the children,” the old woman looked to the mages.

Zevran let his mind wander a little – the Warden himself seemed to be paying little attention to the actual conversation, his eyes trailing around the room – looking at the faces there, with increasing worry as he failed to find the ones he was looking for.

As the Senior Enchanter gave instructions to the younger mage – Petra – the Warden spoke with the other mages in soft tones, too soft for him to hear from where he leaned against the wall and pretended that it did not worry him.

The Warden wore a smile for his fellow mages like he had at Redcliffe and like Redcliffe he introduced the dog to the youngest of the apprentices, and left the dog to play with and protect them from what might come should some danger slip past them.

“Why leave the dog?” he asked, curious as to the reasoning – they needed all the help they could get. The trio of them approached the shimmering barrier of energy that blocked the path.

“Mages are vulnerable to possession when negative emotions are too strong and the Veil is too weak. Loopy makes the children feel a little safer,” the Warden glanced at the dog who was comforting the little ones. “None of the ones I tutored while I lived here are here, Zev. And there were ashes in the hall by the great door. I don’t want to lose any more to demons.”

What did ashes have to do with the lack of apprentices?

He didn’t get a chance to ask as the elder mage had joined the Warden at the barrier.

“Here we are. I am somewhat amazed at myself for having kept it in place this long,” the mage commented, watching the light of the magic.

“You did what you had to to protect them, Wynne.”

“It made me very weary at times,” she admitted, and for a moment Zevran was afraid the old mage might be too old for this. A spark of fire touched the woman’s eyes again, and she was dignified and strong - “Be prepared for anything, I know not what manner of beasts lurk beyond this barrier.”

“Do not fear, my good lady,” he spot up, his eyes meeting the Warden’s gaze, “Our Grey Warden is very good at fending off attackers. Speaking from experience here.”

“I don’t know if that counted as ‘fending off’,” Falcon grinned before releasing a breath and settling his grip on the staff. “We’re ready.”

“All right, be on your guard,” the elder mage lowered the wards, letting the spell dissolve.

The mystery of the ashes was answered quickly, their entry to the ruined library brought with it battle with twisted monstrosities that had once been human. Creatures who upon death their bodies exploded into flames that scorched their corpses into nothing but ashes.

He had known mages were deadly foes, had faced them enough and been warned regarding the threat of blood magic by the Crows.

He had watched the Warden battle with the primal force of a storm echoing around him. Watched Morrigan transform into a beast. He had seen apostates battle on the Crow’s behalf, for they did not give up their numbers to the Circle when magic appeared.

There was little to fear about mages compared to anyone else – they died like any other man. It was what came before that one need worry about but he had not truly understood _why_ until then.

If they failed would this be the fate that waited Falcon? Twisted beyond recognition and driven mad by some Fade-monster…

“Solona isn’t here is she?” the Warden was speaking with the other mage, his tone quiet as he focused on casting the flaming weapons spell while they stood in the last room before the stairs. Apparently he’d abstained only out of deference for what had remained of the library.

“I don’t know if she escaped Ostagar,” Wynne admitted. “I had meant to find the spirit that watched over her when I had recovered but this trouble with Uldred.”

“Do you think Compassion would have stayed with her after what it witnessed?”

“I believe so. And before you ask – Anders escaped from the Tower a few days before I returned from Ostagar. The Templars were unable to find him, but from what I was told he was unusually desperate to escape.”

The Warden frowned a little as the weapons lit up with the flicker of magical fire.

“You can be glad for it – I know you and he share a distaste for the Circle, Alim.”

“The Circle doesn’t make it easy to care for it when you’re not the perfect Circle mage, Senior Enchanter. Neither of us were.”

“No, I imagine it is difficult to care for the Circle when distracted by your Voice,” the woman smiled a little.

The Warden missed the next step, and nearly fell as his foot slipped off it, catching himself by thrusting his staff forward to balance himself. He stared at the old woman who continued up the stairs past him.

“You apprentices were not nearly as secretive as you thought you were.”

As they reached the second floor a figure approached them – and when Zevran prepared to attack the Warden signaled him to wait, and for him and Alistair to check the doors out of the room as he addressed the man with the Sunburst brand on his forehead.

One of the Tranquil had escaped the carnage then.

He and Wynne spoke with the man whose hauntingly flat tones were almost as unsettling as the sight of the abominations had been.

The Warden’s expression had gone grim when he approached them, “Blood magic. You’ll need to be careful not to fall under anyone’s will…make sure you know what thoughts are yours. Wynne and I draw the demons’ attentions for the most part but the mages will probably aim for you, Zev.”

The fight to the next level was grim, and the office where the Warden had hoped to find the First Enchanter was empty of anyone – not even their enemies had thought to venture in and steal what they could carry as of yet.

As they reached the third floor he ventured to ask, “It’s not true that mages can turn someone into a toad, is it? That’s just a myth, yes?”

“It’s just a myth,” the old mage sounded a little exasperated by the question.

“There _are_ accounts of it, completely unverified though,” the Warden grinned. “There are apostates that can turn _themselves_ into toads, certainly, but I don’t think it’d possible to turn someone else into a toad. With blood magic you could theoretically make someone _believe_ they were a toad. I’d ask Morrigan about it but I’m afraid she’d test the theory out on Al.”

“That…doesn’t actually help, Falc,” Alistair informed the mage flatly.

Zevran laughed – the ridiculousness of getting such an academic response to his ridiculous question was somehow comforting.

The floors became smaller and their enemies scarcer as they climbed higher but they were finding fewer _people_ alive and of their own minds despite the earlier concerns regarding blood mages as they climbed higher. More demons though.

A large number of Templars seemed to have fallen under the control of desire demons. At least he assumed that was what the violet skinned creatures with bodies that would make most men – and quite a few women – long for them were.

He did not find the battles to be easy but he was confident in his abilities and in those of his companions.

That was until they opened a door to find an abomination different from the others they’d encountered.

“Oh, look,” it turned, a voice echoing in a way that made it sound like it came from inside his head as well as out, “Visitors. I’d entertain you but…too much effort involved.”

The Warden drew back, throwing his arm out to stop Zevran’s approach towards the being, his whole body had gone stiff with fear. The sudden protective gesture towards _him_ was confusing.

“We’ll just banish you then, no effort required on your part,” Falcon’s tone was lighter than the tension written in every line of the younger elf’s body suggested.

“But why?” the demon sounded almost insulted by the statement. “Aren’t you tired of all the violence in this world? I know I am. Wouldn’t you like to just lay down and…forget about all this? Leave it all behind?”

That sounded reasonable…

“What is this?” exhaustion weighing heavily on him. “Some ridiculous ploy to get me to let down my guard?”

“Can’t…keep eyes open…someone, pinch me,” Alistair staggered a little in his full armor.

“Resist – you _must_ resist,” Wynne called out. “Else we are all lost.”

“Why do you fight?” the creature inquired. “You deserve more…You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you.”

With each word a weight wrapped around him, like an embrace, his eyelids were made of stones and the floor suddenly seemed much more comfortable than it had before. As the heavy curtain of sleep fell over him he felt someone grab his hand.

It was comfortable and warm, wrapped up in the bed, the faint scent of lily-of-the-valley and leather caught in his nose. _Rinnala_.

He opened his eyes to find one of the loves of his life smiling at him, her fingers playing with his hair, brushing down the line of his tattoo, making the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile of his own. He’d missed waking up like this – but…when hadn’t he?

“You should wake your friend up, Zev,” the Antivan was musical in his ears, a beautiful lyrical quality to it that Common never quite measured up to.

At his side was another warm body - black hair loose and messy from sleep and curled against Zev’s side, held close by Zevran’s own arm. A warm smile played across his lips – one of his shirts, a little too large on the slighter elf, and wrinkled with sleep was a much better look for the mage than armor or robes.

The Warden - _his_ Warden was safe and warm and far away from Archdemons and darkspawn.

“No,” he chuckled, “Let him rest a little longer, _mi amore_ , he deserves it.”

She grinned, leaning over to kiss him before she looked to the sleeping elf, her eyes calculating. “Ending a Blight warrants being a _little_ spoiled. Still hard to believe you would play the hero, Zev.”

Faclon’s mouth twitched into a frown, some dream haunting his sleep. She reached across him, her weight leaning comfortably into Zevran to brush her fingers down the elf’s face in a gentle soothing motion. The mage’s expression softened and stilled again, finding more peaceful dreams.

“Ah, you know me. I never could resist a handsome face and impossible odds.”

Slowly he shifted his arm free from the other elf, stretching lazily as he admired the view of Rinna slipping from their bed.

There was… _something_. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt like danger – the way that experience told him he had just walked into an ambush even before the attackers appeared.

**_It hurts but you need the hurt to make things better – I’m sorry you have to remember_.**

Rinna’s head snapped up, anger flashing in her eyes as she looked around the room. Something – someone – was near.

_Her eyes were dull, all sign of her glittering determination snuffed out and drying tears trailed down her cheek, tinted red where the spray of blood had caught her. He held her in his arms, wishing he could bring himself to cry to shout to feel anything besides the cold numbness._

_“Zev, we had to do it – there wasn’t any other way,” Taliesin’s frustration with his lack of movement spurring him into action though his gait was jerky and he felt like a martinet in a child’s show – pulled this way and that by unseen strings rather than his own will._

Rinnala was dead.

He didn’t know what was going on but it wasn’t real. The Warden, defenseless beside him…that might be but the rest of this, the warm Antivan air, the scents of the sea, the chorus of gulls in the harbor, Rinnala and her lily scented hair…

Those couldn’t be real…

From beneath the pillow he seized the knife kept there and in a few soundless bounds he was sinking it into Rinna’s back.

She whirled on him, eyes wide with surprise, “How could you?”

Guilt hit his stomach hard, and he nearly dropped the knife in horror as he looked into her face, knowing the wound he had just given her would kill.

Her eyes turned cat-like, gold and black as her skin tinted violet. Suddenly he was thrown back by a vicious force.

 ** _I gave you everything!_** the demoness was furious, her teeth bared in a snarl, her voice a chilling touch in his blood as much as the sound in his ears. **_Your heart’s desire, Crow, and this is the thanks I get? So be it, mortal._**

Without armor, without magic and armed with only a knife against a being like that. A burst of fire nearly caught him, singing the edge of his shirt as he dodged away and then back into range. The demon had shown her true face, he could slay this thing.

The knife found the creature’s heart and she screamed before falling and the sounds and scents of Antiva disappeared. He stood on an empty stretch of earth looking off the ledge into an abyss filled with green-tinted haze. High above he swore he could see the silhouette of a city, black against the glow of whatever lit this place.

Behind him was the bed still, a figure leaned over the Warden who was there before meeting Zevran’s gaze.

 ** _She asked me to look after him but…He will help you, and you make him whole,_** the figure’s voice was gentler, more of a whisper. **_Right now you must…forget._**

The Warden was stirring from the bed, electricity dancing on his fingertips as he tried to process his surroundings. Blue eyes met his own brown ones and the mage relaxed, the magic dying down and a relieved sort of smile.

Before it was replaced by a frown, “….you can see me?”

“Of course I can, dear Warden,” he said, abandoning the ledge to go to the mage. He seemed to be dressed in armor again, both of them were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so Happy Thanksgiving!
> 
> Hope ya'll have a great day with your friends and family whether turkey is involved or not!


	22. Falcon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE.
> 
> Actually, my apologies on how long this chapter took. I've been cheating on Dragon Age with Geralt of Rivia, you see, after I bought Witcher on Black Friday.

“Let me look at you, Warden.”

He blinked widely into the amber colored eyes that were _very_ close to his face as the rogue made him sit on the edge of the bed and peered back into his own eyes before turning his head side to side. Fingers ran through his hair gently and it wasn’t easy to not lean into that touch like that grouchy old mouser had always done when Anders pet it.

He felt like he was drowning or floating, maybe flying, meeting that gaze – his magic humming beneath his skin…

The Antivan gave a slight _tsk_ when finding nothing and drew away.

Falcon had been unconscious and then babbled something about being able to be seen - Zev thinking he had a head injury was slightly preferable than trying to explain that he had been invisibly eavesdropping on the other man’s dreams the last five years.

“I think I’m fine,” he offered.

“No headache?”

“No headache,” he confirmed – which was…odd the last time he’d been here the way the light pulsed and shifted made his head pound and his stomach do flips. The Fade had always been like that for him – something to do with his magic being tied so strongly to the physical realm.

The rogue sighed at last and drew away, “I thought she may have hurt you.”

Falcon caught the urge to reach out and grab the Antivan’s hand and suppressed it…barely. He wanted…he didn’t know what he wanted, but he _didn’t_ want Zevran to stop touching him.

His Voice was _aware_ and in the Fade. It only made sense that if Zevran’s presence would draw him like a moth to flame that Zevran being aware would be a beacon.

 “Who did you think hurt me?”

“The demon – I disposed of her,” the Crow said airily, a cocky grin forming across his lips, “I really am the best, you know.”

“I know,” he replied, wondering if he was imagining the echo of sorrow he felt from the Crow. Most likely just wishful thinking – he’d felt echoes of emotions before but only through Zevran’s own dreams and they weren’t in one of those. “Are you alright?”

Something had happened with the demon…

“Oh, I think I will be,” Zevran nodded, his expression going oddly serious.

There was an intensity in that stare that for a moment made it hard for Falcon to breathe, and then the casual smirk was back and the amber eyes had softened once more.

“We should…we should find Alistiar. And Wynne,” he managed, trying not to think about what it had meant. As much as he’d like Zev and his feelings and the promises behind those smirks to be his only concern they simply weren’t.

Alistair and Wynne…they were here somewhere too. They had to find them and find a way out of the Fade. Hopefully Wynne had better ideas regarding it than he did…

One of the portals that linked the spaces between dreams and dreams swirled with violet energy at the edge of the Fade island. The two of them would pass through it to try and escape.

Waiting for rescue wasn’t an option – not in the Fade, not when they were probably feeding the demon.

“This is the Fade, is it not? And you are a mage – why don’t you just command your way out of it?”

“The Sloth demon was the one who sent us here – we’ll need its permission to leave, since it probably won’t give us that, we’ll have to settle for its death. There’s probably other people trapped here – I think that was Niall at the demon’s feet when we came in, but…” he grimaced. “There will be more demons, servants or allies, and I don’t know what happens to non-mages that die in the Fade.”

“Nothing pleasant, to be certain,” the Antivan remarked.

“We can get to another part of the Fade through there,” he nodded to the portal like gateway. He didn’t mutter the ‘I hope’ aloud before he stepped through the energy himself.

They emerged in a part of the Fade not heavily shaped as of yet – though they definitely weren’t alone either.

“Well,” Zevran commented, turning back to look at the now dark portal. “That was bracing.” A questioning noise and narrowed eyes followed, the demon who commanded this part of the Fade had noticed them and was shaping it to his best advantage.

The blond tilted his head to the side, his shoulders stiffening some – at the same time Falcon felt it too.

His heart was beating faster – his breath coming quick, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up and a tightening in his gut like the approach of Templar boots.

“Warden,” Zevran’s voice had lost some of its lightness. “Something’s wrong – in the air?”

He shook his head, “Fear. It wants us to be afraid.”

“Mm,” the assassin hummed, and Falcon met the amber eyes. “And this demon, it will try to use our fears against us, no?”

“It might, or it might just keep pushing the sense of fear directly at us,” he shivered, jumping a little as he thought he felt something cold pass behind him. When he turned there was nothing there though – just the growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

The clink of armored footsteps made him freeze up, and three angry looking Templars appeared from the mists, their shields raised and swords drawn.

“Yours, perhaps?” Zevran’s drawl was perversely cheerful as he unsheathed his daggers. “Are they like us?”

“Wraiths,” he answered, “Shaped out of fear – mine or that from the Tower.”

Templars were dangerous – fearing them, fearing the power and control they could exert had always seemed natural – like being wary of a wolf or loose earth on a high cliff. Somehow it wasn’t a surprise they were the first fear mustered by the demon.

He lashed out at one with magic, causing the armored being to stagger while Zevran launched into the fray, a blur of movement and a whirl of blades that reminded Falcon sharply of how lucky he and Alistair were that the Crow hadn’t desired their deaths.

The Templars fell quickly, vanishing into smoke as they did so.

Things might have been alright except for the ground gave out under his boot and he felt himself falling backwards, Zevran darting forward and grabbing empty air where his hand had been – missing it by a thread then the earth sealed again.

Dark, damp, without light….he was _trapped_. Alone. There was too much stone, he couldn’t feel the wind – not that there was much of that in the Fade.

 ** _My servants can see to the Voice for now,_** the demon’s voice echoed in the lightless dark, there was something almost hypnotic about her tones. **_The two of you together may have been too difficult. Sweet Yavena never learned to be cautious of you mortals but I have more caution._**

He could still sense Zevran somewhere nearby.

“Do _you_ have a name?” he asked – if his voice shook as he reached out, his fingertips finding cool stone beneath them that was his business. The stones were fitted together, cut perfectly so there was no mortar between them.

The unknown could be so much worse than the known, wasn’t it?

 ** _Vereveel_** , she replied. ** _I have known you for some time, Alim._**

Lit from within but throwing off no light on its surroundings was the shape of a human – no an _elf_ – a child, standing in the darkness, her red hair cut short and messy from play her hazel eyes glowing unnaturally. No more than eight years old.

The raised, accusing, finger trembled, and her eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down her cheeks, “You aren’t my brother! You’re a monster, give me back Falcon!”

His throat tightened – “You’ll need to do better than memories, Vereveel.”

His sister’s form faded and then was replaced by another, a grim faced assassin with tattoos down one cheek. His amber eyes filled with disgust. “How could you think I could tie myself to a freak like you?”

A scoff filled with disdain and the other elf turned his back to Falcon.

It wasn’t the real – the real Zevran was still a distance from them – too close for the shadow to be held long as the false-Zevran faded as soon as their back was turned.

 ** _This is where you will always find yourself, Alim, here in the darkness all alone with only ghosts and fears for company_**.

“That’s not true.”

 ** _Do you think if you survive this you will escape that fate?_** the laughter was cruel. **_The Calling will take you into the roads without light to join the shadowed ones. Your kin feared you and cast you to the Templars and their prisons, those you called family abandoned you - your Voice is a suicidal assassin who loves no one in the waking world_**.

He didn’t answer, feeling his way down the stone walls, there had to be a way out. Around a corner and there, vaguely, the shape of a door backlit from light on the other side. He was nearly out – just had to get to the door and he’d be able to breathe again, be able to force the demon out of hiding…

He ran into the bars hard enough that the damn things _rang_ in the darkness.

The exit was there – so _close_.

**_Just the darkness and your fears, Alim. Fighting will change nothing – accept us._ **

He closed his eyes – he was panicking, he could feel it in his nerves and his racing heart. He was also _not_ thinking. He wasn’t alone – Zevran was nearby, and Alistair and Wynne were somewhere in this Fade realm. He couldn’t afford to be stupid, not with their lives in danger too.

The demon had trapped him away from everyone, isolated him to make him afraid.

His sister had been terrified by his magic, everyone in the alienage he had known had been, with good reason. The _venadahl_ still doubtlessly bore a scar from his magic – it’d woken violently and the lightning had set fire to a pot the _hahren_ was using to grow elfroot at the base of the tree.

“I’m an idiot,” he laughed.

The demon was _here_ , nearby. It had to be.

He stepped away from the bars, and turned to face the darkness. Zevran was nearby but far enough he could be certain that the rogue was safe from _his_ magic. He raised his hands up, steadying his breath and let the power pour out around him.

Lightning magic was easy – it sprang and danced around him like Loopy begging for the piece of cheese, it welled around him and then danced out into the darkness – finding the demoness of fear in her hiding place and illuminating the entire prison cell that had been produced for his benefit.

And unlike the cell from his nightmares _this_ one didn’t have runes carved into it to stop him from casting spells.

Vereveel screamed as the magic burned and sang through and around her and then there was a rumble as it fell silent and her will exerting itself over the Fade vanished with her death and a low rumble and a sensation of the ground heaving like an unsteady boat before he was dumped into the light at Zevran’s feet.

The Antivan elf looked a little pale – whatever phantoms he had been dealing with had doubtlessly held even less appeal than the empty darkness had for Falcon.

“Warden,” he smiled, offering him a hand up.

Falcon took it without thinking grinning to his Voice as the pleasant sensation not unlike the tickle of his magic not moments before as he let it loose raced up his arm.

“Our delightful demon has been dealt with, yes?”

“She’s dead,” Falcon smiled.  He pointed to the nearly appeared portal that glowed with power. “Are you ready?”

The rogue looked bleak – they had faced and defeated two demons already. How many more must they face before they had a chance at the master of this realm?

“Where you go, I go, my Warden,” he flashed a grin. “You really should consider taverns or brothels more often, the company is much more pleasant.”

“I dunno, your company’s not so bad, Zev,” he flashed a smile before he headed through the portal.

They emerged into a dream this time rather than a part of the raw Fade. A chilly wind whistled through great solemn pillars. Men and women dressed in silver and blue armor moved about without giving them a second glance – spirits or wisps playing the part of dream-people.

Zevran shivered a little and muttered about Fade weather under his breath in Antivan.

“Falcon!” Alistair beamed as he walked up to them, “There you are, Duncan was looking for you!”

“Was he?” Falcon asked innocently. “I’m sorry, Al. Do you know what Duncan wanted?”

“We’ve been in Weisshaupt a little while now,” Alistair rolled his eyes. “He probably wants to know what you think of the library. You were excited to see it for some reason.”

“Weisshaupt? Why are we in Weisshaupt, Duncan is the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, isn’t he?”

“Is he real?” Zevran murmured into Falcon’s ear.

Alistair – like Zevran – was blessedly easy to tell apart from any Fade ghost masquerading as him. The Fade couldn’t reproduce the Taint. Actually the Taint seemed to behave as a sort of Anti-Fade when it came to dreams and Connor’s demon had had a hard time seeing him and Alistair because of it.

It was something to consider _later_.

Falcon gave a nod in reply as Alistair looked at them like they were crazy, still Alistair shook it off as he spotted Duncan approaching, a bit grin spreading across his face.

“I found him, Duncan!” he called. “He and Zevran were up to something again.”

The sharp eyed Warden chuckled as he stopped in front of the three young men, amusement making the corner of his mouth twitch the way it had in life. The demon was doing a good job masquerading as Alistair’s memory of the dead Warden.

“And how do you two find Weisshaupt since we found peace?”

“I’m just a little confused why we’re not in Ferelden,” Falcon smiled sweetly.

“There’s no need for the Wardens to be vigilant at all corners of Thedas now, Falcon,” the Warden-Commander sounded patient. “Do you not remember descending into the Deep Roads and lighting the warrens aflame?”

A dream, a dream that he wouldn’t wish to wake from.

“Alistair – do you remember when we met?”

“Of course, Ostagar,” he sounded puzzled. “You wanted to know if being a mage was a problem because of that stupid joke.”

False-Duncan suddenly frowned – his hand itching towards a blade, and Falcon knew Zevran was paying attention to several of the ghosts that had positioned themselves more aggressively now that someone was questioning the dream.

“What are you getting at, Surana?”

“And do you remember the Tower of Ishal?” he ignored Duncan, keeping his eyes on Alistair, “What happened during the battle?”

Alistair paled, tears gathering in his eyes as he looked to Duncan, “Loghain. Loghain murdered you and Cailan when he left you on the field.”

“As you can see, I’m not dead and you know Cailan rules Ferelden even now, Alistair,” the demon tried to convince him.

“No….that’s not true,” Alistair shook his head. “We have to defeat the Blight. And the _real_ Duncan, he wouldn’t just retire up to some mountainside in the middle of nowhere.”

“Very well,” the frustrated demon replied, unsheathing both his blades. “If you wish for only death then so be it.”

Alistair was unarmed and dressed in a plain shirt and trouser. It was Falcon who struck first, a magically charged blow from his staff staggering the murderous ‘Warden’ away from his fellow and then another lightning bolt following to kill the demon.

An arrow flew by nearly striking him before Zevran dealt with the ‘archer Warden’ and weapons or not a Templar’s Holy Smite was enough to render the ‘mage Warden’ back into Fade mists.

He met Alistair’s eyes uneasily – he could tell there was confusion there, he’d just watched his friend strike down a man he loved as a father. Even if it wasn’t _real_ that couldn’t have been easy.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” the Warden nodded, “Just, uh, try not to tell everyone how easily fooled I was.”

“It’s the Fade,” Falcon pointed out with a smile.

Glowing lights began to engulf Alistair whose eyes widened and he threw his hands up in confusion and fear, “Are we going now? Wait, where are you going? What’s happening to me? Hey!”

Then he vanished.

“Shite,” Falcon swore.

“He just vanished – a nifty trick that,” Zevran commented. “Did he wake up?”

“No, Sloth took him, I _think_. Damn it.”

Zevran frowned a little, “How is it that I am with you but Alistair was snatched away so easily?”

“I don’t know,” he said, looking away. “I grabbed your hand right before the magic took me, maybe that’s why? Honestly, I’m not the type of mage that deals with this stuff. I usually get motion sick, except you can’t actually get sick in the Fade. No stomachs.”

He made a face at the portal before them and stepped through yet again.

Thankfully the Rage demon, who declared itself to be named Rhagos, was true to its nature, though dangerous and powerful it attacked them directly, engaging them in battle rather than taunting or manipulating. They were both beginning to feel the wear of the Fade and the repeated battles though – Zev’s style had gotten less flashy and more brutally direct, conserving energy.

The next realm they entered was the Raw Fade still but frozen over – every twisted form sparkled with deadly ice and their breath left puffs in the air. Even Falcon felt the chill and shivered – Zevran behind him materialized with teeth chattering.

The hooded demon regarded them, her head turned to the side, her toothy mouth an unpleasant smile. Deep scars were burnt into her flesh – spider-webbed lightning patterns down her twisted flesh.

 ** _Hello, little bird,_** the creature hissed. **_And you return to me what is mine at last._**

Fear far more potent than what the fear demon itself had inspired flooded him, cold, cold, cold. So cold. He couldn’t breathe – he felt his legs give out – his back was burning.

He was going to die.

“Warden!” Zevran’s voice was a dull echo from a thousand miles away. “Falcon! _Brasca_ – what have you done to him?”

**_I have done nothing, My Murdering Crow – but then, you of all people know how damaging doing nothing can be._ **

The creature regarded him coldly – **_Tell me something, do you believe that his fate will be any different from those others you have loved?_**

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am a whoreson and an assassin – there is no place in my life for love.”

 ** _I am near my death already, too near to think to win this conflict but let me tell you the story of your little bird and I before we duel,_** the demon’s grin was toothier than before. **_A year ago I came across the Little Bird wandering far afield in the Fade – he was searching for his golden Voice. We fought for that Voice, he and I. It was Urthemiel’s Day._**

The sound of a hundred thousand crows rising up around them was deafening and Zevran drew his blades, his expression stony.

As with the nightmare before the crows rose up like a great wave and turned inwards and in the last moment before innumerable murderous beaks crashed down on them to pluck out their eyes and livers Falcon managed to raise a magical shield around them both that the birds vanished against.

The demon cackled one final time before dissolving into quickly melting snow – the entire section of the Fade thawing without their presence to freeze it.

Falcon stayed kneeling – Urthemiel’s Day, Urthalis, Wintersend – the night that had destroyed his future in the Circle even before he put the final nails into that coffin aiding Jowan. The night that Zevran had dreamt of Rinna and his guilt.

He trembled and coughed – trying to even his breath out.

Standing above him Zevran was ashen, for a long time neither moved but eventually Zevran knelt and lay a hand on his shoulder – “Are you alright, Grey Warden?”

Falcon shivered – the physical touch there a reminder that his scars were long healed. “I’m sorry – I, I should have killed it, I thought – I’m sorry.”

“Worry about it later, Warden,” the assassin’s tone was gentle, soothing even as he levered the mage to his feet. “We have a little further to go before we rest, I’m afraid, my handsome Warden.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, not that he was even sure what he apologized for, then he gave a shaky laugh and nodded, “I’ll be fine. We can’t have much further to go.”


	23. Zevran

Despite the chill he was still on deck, helping where he could – Isabela had insured he had an impressive knowledge of ships rigging – but mostly just keeping an eye on the Warden.

The Tower was far behind them, and they were nearly back to the haunted castle. He’d finally slept enough that even with Rinna’s ghost haunting his sleep he felt rested again. Enough so that he could turn his thoughts to the consequences of what had happened at the Circle, at least a little.

A quick glance confirmed that the Warden was still tucked up in an out of the way spot on the bow, wrapped in a cloak and asleep against a protective mountain of Mabari muscle. Exhaustion had won out against seasickness for this trip but he still refused to go inside to where he might find a bunk.

Demons, Zevran decided, were far worse than Crows.

With luck – though he’d had scant little of it lately – the creature at Redcliffe castle would be the _last_ one he faced.

“Dear Wynne,” he smiled spotting the elder mage who’d so recently joined the Warden’s company. “You know there are many stories about mages and the Fade – I wonder how many are true?”

The old woman was cautious looking at him, but sighed, “Very well, what are you wondering about – and if this is about my bosom again I will be introducing you to Lake Calenhad.”

If he were not interested elsewhere the woman’s determined thwarting of his flirtations might have been more disappointing, as it was he continued them only because he had the distinct sense that she didn’t like him. Or rather she wasn’t overly fond of his closeness with the Warden.

“How could I not wonder at such beauty?” he teased before shaking his head, “Alas, for now, I was curious to know if it was true that mages are given soulmates whom they watch over while they sleep?”

Like the Templars’ use of lyrium the existence of mages’ Voices was theoretically supposed to be a secret. However enough apostates existed that it was still known – and beyond that the Imperium had bounty hunters that specifically hunted down _vincta_ to take them north to the mage who had bonded with them.

“It’s not like that, many of us never hear the Voice – they died before we could hear them, or maybe there simply never was them. And among those who _can_ hear it the attachment is not always destined to be romantic, sometimes they are simply important to one another as friends.”

He tried to keep the corner of his mouth from twitching – the woman sounded like a teacher or a Mother lecturing someone on misbehavior rather.

“Zevran,” she added sharply, “The Warden having a Voice is no excuse for you to play with his feelings. If you let your games go too far I will be _most_ displeased, understand?”

“Darling Wynne, you wound me – my games are for you alone are they not? How could my attention be elsewhere when such a-”

She lifted her hand, glowing with magic and he silenced himself, as fun as teasing the mage was he did _not_ wish to have a swim in Lake Calenhad. He was far too cold already.

Also he could feel eyes on him – watching from across the ship though the Warden seemed to have no inclination to leave his cozy spot curled up beside the overgrown puppy of his.

He remembered the scars on the Warden’s back. A great swathe of electric burns that could only have been caused by magic. They’d caught his eye enough that he’d asked after them one time – getting only a single word explanation – ‘A demon’ – before the mage had stopped talking.

The Warden was a stubborn creature and he’d not had the curiosity to try to pry more of the story from him.

Now though….

The demon had carried mirroring scars – the target of the spell that had nearly killed the Warden as well, doubtlessly – and these had been given on Wintersend one year past.

Rinna had white ribbons braided in her hair that morning – she never wore all white but she liked to wear the ribbons each year because she fancied the idea of marriage _someday_. Both he and Taliesin had teased her for them in the past.

That year he was the only one teasing that morning – Taliesin had left before the sun rose and not returned until close to dusk - right before they reconfirmed that the virginal white wasn’t the color either of them would wear at their weddings.

That night he didn’t remember sleeping – he had drank himself into it though, and the nightmares filled with blood and corpses had begun.

The crows rising from all sides to take their payment for his folly, his arrogance had nearly reached him when a shield sprang up around him and like magic they had disappeared. He’d thought he had felt someone else there – thought he’d heard someone cry out - but he’d woken after, an ache between his shoulders he’d ignored in favor of drinking more.

The dream forgotten until the demon had recreated it. More nightmares had followed in the nights that came after – they still did - but none had been drenched so deeply in _despair_.

A shield that glittered like ice and lightning as if spun from the heart of a storm had been raised again. This time he knew it had been the Warden to raise it.

No - it was coincidence. A trick of the Fade and the demon’s manipulations, nothing more.

He had loved twice before for naught. And he had learned his lesson, hadn’t he? He was an assassin and whoreson, nothing more, love had no place in his life.

The Warden would not become the third in a line of heartbreaks. Of that much he was certain, at least.

Later he would have to find a way to pull from the young man what the truth behind the demon's words had been - perhaps discover who the 'golden Voice' was so that he knew when it was time to step aside.

Wynne was frowning at him now, some dark shadow of his thoughts must have shown on his face after all, “You two should talk to _someone_ about what happened in the Fade. It is difficult for mages to face a single demon within the Fade, let alone six consecutively and you did so without magic to protect you.”

“Our Grey Warden will confide in the sweet Chantry sister left at Redcliffe when this business with the demon is done. And a bottle of brandy from the generous Arl’s cellar is enough for myself, I should think.”

The white haired mage made a disapproving noise and went to talk to Alistair instead.

He watched after her before leaning against the rail, letting the wind ruffle his hair – let loose for now – so that it tickled across his cheeks and neck. The shadow of Redcliffe castle loomed over head and the sailors brought them to a series of docks beneath the castle proper.

The Arl’s brother waited for them there, face pensive.

Before long the ritual was set up and the Warden was permitting himself to pull a face at yet _another_ lyrium dosage as he sat in the center of the circle.

The rest of the Warden’s company lined the room anxiously like sentinels.

He was perched on one of the tables, a knife spinning in his fingers. Alistair and Morrigan stood quietly watching, the Templar fidgeting with a stone statuette while the mage’s sun-colored eyes took in each detail of the mages’ preparations. Sten stood near the door but watched on disapprovingly, just as curious as Morrigan but far less comfortable with magic.  Leliana had chosen to sit beside Zevran himself, muttering a soft prayer to Andraste on the Warden’s behalf before falling silent to watch.

He’d have to find a way to ‘misplace’ the mage’s lyrium potions for a short time. The Warden needed to recover his strength naturally, too much dependence on the magical mineral could do considerable damage and with the pressure the Warden placed himself under it’d be too easy for him to rationalize the usage.

This new potion had been mixed with other things – herbs he recognized as sedatives from his own alchemical forays and the like. Things to keep the Warden asleep longer so that he could accomplish his task.

Why not send Morrigan or his betrayer or the creaking old First Enchanter?– but he already knew the reason. He’d seen it enough in the way that the Warden fought:

The Warden preferred to take the danger on his own person than risk another.

“Tis a simple ritual, in theory,” Morrigan’s arms were crossed as she fixed Leliana with a scowl. “The Warden can manage it easily. No need to invoke long dead women.”

“If that is true then he doesn’t need the Maker’s guidance,” Leliana smiled sweetly back, “However having it will do no harm either, no?”

“How long will he be like this?” Alistair asked – watching the mage who was still as…as a corpse in the center of the candle rings. His face pale from the lyrium, his lips tinted blue from the potion.

“A few hours, perhaps more,” Morrigan’s harshness relented some, and for a moment concern forged on the hesitant friendship which she shared with the Warden showed in her expression. “He will wake when the demon is dealt with.”


	24. Jowan

Connor was safe, Falcon had done what he’d always done and protected people to the best of his ability at his own expense. It had not been until after he’d sunk into the magically induced trance that he’d heard the story from the Circle.

Wynne had spoken to him with a sour expression on her face - he’d taken lessons with her sometimes in the past. She’d always been stern, strict even, but he’d never felt like he’d disappointed her until she faced him waiting for Falcon to wake.

The Tower infested with demons, abominations and blood mages – most the Circle hurt or dead – and Falcon had fought against six demons within the Fade on top of Uldred and whatever else that had been brought through. And he’d immediately gone and plunged himself straight back into the Fade to save a boy that he didn’t know.

Jowan had thought perhaps it was on behalf of the Templar-like fellow, that Alistair, but as much as friends motivated him Falcon was the sort to choose to do the right thing because it was right.

He leaned his head back against the stone, listening to the rustle of rats and mice in the darkness.

Not even a week alone in a cell and it had worn on his nerves something terrible – how had Falcon and Anders survived? Solona wouldn’t be flinching at every mouse squeak either. Solona never would have agreed to poison an Arl either.

Footsteps made him bolt to his feet – they were still out of sight but he could hear someone coming.

“I _know_ the sweet and honorable Lady Isolde has ordered no one visit the prisoner, Teagan,” Falcon sounded at the end of his patience. More resigned he added - “I’ve lost everyone else I called family, letting me at least _talk_ to the last one I have left while I can still say goodbye. I didn’t get that chance with the others.”

There was a soft sigh and Teagan relented: “Alright – but Isolde can’t find out I agreed to this, and be back in time for dinner. Alistair can’t represent the Wardens alone, and we need the support of these lords.”

“Ask Wynne if she’d be willing to attend as well – she’s a mage but she’s a veteran of Maric’s rebellion. We both know this dinner is more about securing alliances for Alistair’s claim to the throne than it is allies for the Wardens.” Falcon appeared in the doorway, a torch in hand as he was still facing away to where the Bann was undoubtedly standing, “Thank you Teagan.”

“What do you mean? I wasn’t here,” Teagan replied dryly. “I don’t know what you see in that Jowan but I won’t deny you the chance to talk to your brother, though Maker knows that I envy you it.”

Falcon gave a short laugh and as the double shadows that indicated a second torch vanished his expression became more solemn, he approached the cell lighting the torches on the walls quietly before he really looked at Jowan.

“Morrigan healed your wounds while I was gone?”

“She said that I’d keep the skeletons distracted longer if I was whole,” he explained, not sure why Falcon was there. “Have they sent you to kill me?”

“No – Lady Isolde wishes you to die a sorcerer’s death. Murdock – the mayor – told me she’s ordered more wood gathered but with the funeral pyres it will be a few days before they have enough.”

He paled, his gut twisting – a sorcerer’s death meant being put to the torch. It was barbaric but…so had the tortures the woman had already inflicted. “Do…do you know when?”

“We leave tomorrow, the day after at most, for Denerim to find Genitivi. Isolde won’t risk killing you while I’m near, I make her nervous, she’ll wait until I’ve left. She’s too impatient for blood to wait much longer than that though.”

“So…you’re here to say goodbye?”

Guilt flickered in his gaze and he looked away, “Yeah.”

“…you always were the best of us, weren’t you?”

“No I wasn’t – that was Solona,” Falcon replied automatically. “I’m the one useful as a magical battering ram and not much else.”

“Her too,” Jowan agreed, “The two of you – it was always so obvious you both were meant for something special. And I just couldn’t keep up, not with you or with her. I thought…I thought the blood magic would fix that but it just made everything worse.”

“Jowan, you’re an idiot. You’re a _good_ mage, or you would’ve been if you weren’t a blood mage.”

“At least you’ll be able to see Solona in Denerim, maybe?”

Falcon’s shoulders slumped, he’d not been smiling before but now…he sagged. His ears drooped down a little the way they did when he was sad – not just sad, _grieving_.

“…Sol’s not in Denerim.”

“What?” worry shot through him.

“…she was at Ostagar, Jowan. In the king’s camp as a healer. Wynne put her on a horse, told her to escape but no one’s seen her since.”

That…that wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right.

“What are you saying?” he demanded, gripping the bars. “Are you saying Solona’s _dead_?”

“No!” Falcon snapped – a reflexive denial that softened to guilt and confusion as he looked away, refusing to meet Jowan’s gaze. “I don’t know – she might be, Jowan…there’s no way to know. Not for sure. I just…I thought you should know. That you deserved to know where the others were. That you should hear it from me. I…I should have told you before, when I saw you the first time but…I hoped…”

“You hoped she was at the Circle…I guess if I’m going to the Maker already, maybe I should take a message for you?”

“Don’t be an idiot Jowan,” Falcon glared at him. “You’re not going to the Maker, not yet.”

That was right – only the worthy went to the Maker. Those like him, those who had done nothing but harm and hurt in their lifetime, they were doomed to wander the void forever. _That_ was where he was going.

The dull echo of a bell somewhere in the world above signaled the end of their time together.

“I have to go…Jowan…” Falcon gave a sad smile, “I’m _still_ pissed about the phylactery thing – but I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Falc,” he told his friend’s retreating back.

He sat hard on the ground – Anders and Falcon would be alright. They always were, but Solona… Sol was gone, that…

She wasn’t supposed to be gone. She was supposed to be the one that thrived, the one that made changes in the Circle. He’d thought that one day she’d be First Enchanter, maybe even Grand Enchanter, but if she was dead…

Everything was a disaster.

He cried again – he did that a lot these days, and eventually he fell asleep in the cold stone cell. The guards had doused the torches on their last round through and he was woken by someone cursing softly at the door.

Their work was lit only by a single dim candle, which made most the elf’s features turn darker than they were, except his hair which looked even yellower than it had when he’d seen the man before.

“Brasca,” the rogue scowled as he fiddled with the lock and then smirked as it clicked and the door popped open.

Jowan blinked dumbly at Falcon’s Voice. What was _he_ doing here?

“I’m awesome, I know, but up, on your feet,” the rogue hurried him.

“What are _you_ doing here? Are you here to…” he choked – death by fire was a thoroughly terrible way to go, an Antivan Crow would be able to kill him without pain. It was a strange sort of favor. “Did Falcon ask you to come?”

The elf frowned at him, “Who else would want to see you freed?”

Wait… _freed_?

“You’re not here to kill me?”

“Ah, so the Warden has _always_ had strange taste in friends. That is good to know,” the Antivan smiled. “Truly though – if you wish to escape it must be now.”

Earlier – Falcon was attending a political dinner and meeting with some ally of house Guerrin that night. If Jowan disappeared while Falcon was within view the whole time then the Wardens couldn’t be blamed.

So _that_ was what he’d meant by Jowan not joining the Maker.

“I’m coming,” he said, following the elf quickly through the escape passage. “…Falcon really asked you to save me?”

“The Warden is not one to abandon his friends, even those that do not return that favor,” the Crow replied as he headed up the ladder before signaling Jowan to follow.

There was less judgment from the Crow than there had been from the witch but he suspected that if Falcon were angrier or resented him anymore the assassin might have led him to his execution rather than his freedom despite whatever had been asked of him.

The tunnel opened in the old windmill he’d seen frequently from the castle but he’d had little interest or desire in spending time in the town so he had never ventured this far. He followed Zevran Arainai from the windmill and out of the town for some time.

At a small roadside shrine the rogue removed a pack, checking its contents over before he handed it to him. “This is the road you need to get to Amaranthine. You have enough here for a boat from Amaranthine.”

Jowan looked at the pack in his hands – at the promise of a new life, one which he hadn’t completely made a mess of yet. Even after everything – even with all the harm he had done – Falcon was willing to give him that chance, even when it meant betraying the trust of those around him.

“…can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead, though I might not answer.”

“…it’s more a favor than a question,” Jowan stopped walking and waited until the assassin stopped and was looking at him.

The assassin looked around but raised his brows in silent questioning.

“Just…don’t hurt Falcon, not any more than you already have – please?”

“It was just a job for the Crows, my friend, I was obligated to hunt him and his fellow Warden,” the assassin pointed out, “I am Crow no longer.”

“I meant…” he shook his head, it wasn’t his place to tell, if Falcon wanted to keep it quiet for a little longer then he owed his friend that choice if nothing else.

“That’s not what I meant. Just look out for him, please.”


	25. Alistair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bad week for me but I FINALLY finished this chapter.  
> The argument was supposed to be longer but I've had a lot of negativity in my life this week and I needed this chapter to end on a positive note.
> 
> Please enjoy and be gentle.

It was raining hard, had been the entire day by this point.

They were soaked.

Mud coated most of them up to their knees – the one halfway amusing instance of the day had occurred when Loopy caught their Antivan unawares and brought him down to the ground with a terrific bound and an undignified squawk from the assassin as nearly two hundred pounds of mabari crashed into him.

The Crow’s entire front half was coated in a thick layer of the stuff while the dog had rolled in it to Wynne’s dismay (a bath had been given the night before).

The moods all around had not been very good most the day either – the weather or the unspoken tension that lay between the Wardens to blame. No teasing, not even Morrigan seemed to have an interest in needling and being nasty.

The tents and their sleeping rolls and clean clothes, even slightly damp, would be a relief. And the rain had let up for a little bit as they stopped the night. There’d be more but they had time to light a fire, at least they were _trying_.

His own continuing quiet had less to do with the weather and more to do with being angry. Furious, really, or maybe hurt…he wasn’t sure as to _what_ it was, just that it was a tight, painful knot in his chest.

Jowan had escaped the castle the night before while the Wardens helped Isolde reassure the neighboring lords, the banns sworn to the arl, that the situation was under control.

The mage who had tried to murder Arl Eamon, tried to murder a man who had been like a father to Alistair when he’d been younger had escaped. He didn’t think that burning the man was right but setting him _free_ so he could hurt someone else was even worse, and Teagan would never have let Isolde go through with it.

Falcon had claimed that he knew nothing about the escape when the Arlessa had questioned him. He even offered to bring Jowan back to Redcliffe if they found him. He’d suggested that one of Loghain’s agents might have been getting rid of the evidence of the poisoning.

The mage had kept carefully away from him, and not quite looked Alistair in the eye since that statement though.

He’d not confronted him at the castle – Isolde could be vindictive and he didn’t want to give her ammunition against his fellow Warden. So he waited.

By morning he had convinced himself that had the Arl been cured they could have bargained for Jowan’s freedom. _If_ Eamon survived. And he would.

They were going to make sure of that.

The sneaking and the lying hadn’t been necessary.

He’d wanted to confront Falcon right away but he had waited, trying to find the words as they slogged. Now it was evening and he _still_ hadn’t spoken to his fellow Warden, and the anger was still boiling in his veins alongside the taint.

In the center of the camp the fire was burning now. The increasingly frustrated-with-the-flint Leliana having been relieved on that particular front by Falcon who’d called up magic to get it started.

Blue eyes met his for half a second before they looked away, the guilty expression pulling the smirking success from the mage’s face.

“Leli – do you want to trade dinner duty? I think I can dry out wood enough for tonight, but I don’t want to try it near the tents.”

“Mmm…I think I’d like something edible tonight anyways,” she nodded, though Alistair saw her glance his way. She was smart enough to know what had happened to Jowan but _she_ wasn’t saying anything either.

Was she really okay with them just letting a maleficar go?

“Thanks,” Falcon nodded and snatched his staff up off the ground before he headed towards the stand of trees where they’d fetched the first bunch of wood.

There’d be no chance at privacy later so Alistair followed the mage, waiting until they were out of sight of the camp to speak, “So – your plan to stop the Blight, what does that have to do with letting murderers run around free?”

“The Arl isn’t dead, the demon who caused the undead at Redcliffe _is_ ,” Falcon turned to face him, expression wary, his grip on his weapon adjusted slightly the way he did before a fight.

“You helped Jowan escape! You know what he did, you know he tried to kill the Arl for _Loghain_ of all people and you still let him go,” he stepped closer, his hand grabbing the front of the elf’s armor. He was furious – but Falcon’s hand shot out to the left, making a motion for someone to stop.

They had an audience, he realized as he released his friend, his temper leashed in.

Zevran frowned, but didn’t take another step forward. Instead he just leaned against the tree, his arms crossed, watching.

It occurred to him suddenly that the assassin had been how the escape plan even worked. Zevran was Falcon’s Voice so it was no mystery why he’d have been trusted but the assassin was also quite obviously a murderer himself, a far more successful one than Jowan. He wouldn’t have disagreed with letting a killer loose – except maybe out of professional disdain for Jowan’s failure.

Alistair stepped back – no matter how angry he was Falcon was his brother, his fellow Warden. He didn’t _want_ to hurt him. He might be angry but he wouldn’t want to strike the other Warden because of it, but it must’ve looked like he would have.

Honestly, Alistair _hadn’t_ been entirely sure for a moment that he wasn’t going to. That…scared him. He didn’t like the idea that he could have a side to him like _that_.

Especially since Falcon took a hesitant step back to put more space between them too, the hand on his staff was clenched, the tendons in his arm that showed beneath his armor tense. Too tense to be ready for a fight, that was the tightness that came when someone froze up in fear.

His friend was afraid of _him_.

_Oh, blast it_.

That look wasn’t even about Alistair being a big warrior type compared to the shorter, slimmer elf.

He was a Templar, just over eight months as a Warden hadn’t undone ten years of training to act, move and hold himself a certain way. _Two_ hadn’t been enough time for Falcon to lose the ingrained wariness and fear from twelve years in a Circle.

Shame pricked at the back of his mind – he didn’t know everything but he knew enough to know that he shouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t ready to apologize, to let his anger go yet even if it _had_ nearly completely dissipated.

“Why?” he asked.

“…despite everything he’s still a friend…I know I can’t trust him – not again, not after everything he’s done but…if he stayed in Redcliffe he would die. The only option that Teagan would have given me is to send him to the Circle and…” he faltered before meeting Alistair’s gaze, squaring his shoulders up like he was expecting the fight to continue, “I couldn’t let that happen. I’m sorry.”

“I _know_ ,” he snapped. “I’m not an idiot, Falc! I…” he stopped himself.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know Falcon.

In the time they’d known each other he’d learned quickly that the mage could be private to the point of secretive – there was so much about the mage he just didn’t know. But…he’d thought Falcon would trust him more.

 “You care about him, I _know_ that, I don’t know what he did to deserve it but I know you do,” he continued quietly, “Don’t you think if I’d had the chance to save Duncan or any of the other Wardens I’d have taken it?”

“I didn’t think you’d understand,” Falcon admitted.

“Of course I would! You _just_ lost Solona! After what happened to Duncan, how could I not understand?”

He didn’t like Jowan – he was pretty sure that he was damn close to hating the man. But the price of seeing Jowan pay for his crimes was his brother Warden’s grief for the mage, and they had lost so much already….it just wasn’t worth it.

Quieter still Alistair added, “…why didn’t you trust _me_?”

“I…” the denial died on his friend’s lips and guilt crossed his expression. “…it seemed too important to risk trusting anyone.”

“You trusted _him_ ,” Alistair pointed at the assassin.

“…I needed someone to get Jowan free. If I did it the Arlessa would have too much a chance convincing the Arl not to help us, whether we save his life or not, the Wardens couldn’t be seen helping Jowan escape,” then a little more sheepishly, “She’s already hurt people I care about, I needed to make sure her spite couldn’t reach Ferelden.”

Falcon opened his mouth to continue then stopped, looking away as he gathered his thoughts. Softly he spoke: “Al, I _do_ trust you, but I need to trust you more, I _should_ trust you more than I did. I’m sorry.”

He faltered – him, proven worthy of trust? That wasn’t…it’d hurt to think that Falcon hadn’t trusted him but he wasn’t, he hadn’t….he’d gotten so angry...but he didn’t think that his fellow Warden was lying to him about that, even with the doubts.

“You really think so?” he asked.

“...you’ve treated me as family since we met,” Falcon’s fingers were playing with the pendent around his neck again, the way he did when he was nervous or thinking deeply on things he’d rather not think about. “I’d like to think of you as my brother too, if you-”

He’d never had a proper family, his father and half-brother were distant figures, Eamon had cared for him as a ward and while Alistair had loved him as a father he’d still sent him away to the Chantry, and Duncan…Duncan and the Wardens had been the closest he’d ever really gotten to family, but he’d lost them.

He cut Falcon off, stepping forward to hug him in a crushing hug.

“I _want_ to trust you more, Al,” the elf hugged him back stiffly, though his voice was slightly muffled. “I’ll do better about talking to you.”

“That means no making me king without telling me.”

“I’m _pretty_ sure that I won’t get to pick who the next king is,” Falcon stepped back with a laugh. “I might be a Warden but I’m not the only one and I’m the elf mage, remember? I’m just here to look pretty and throw fireballs.”

“Except you never actually throw fireballs.”

“True,” he chuckled, as he stepped back out of the embrace, putting a little more space between them but the tension from earlier had bled out between them like thawed ice, “That mean you think I look pretty?”

Alistair laughed, – “You know – I always thought I was the pretty one in this scenario.”


	26. Morrigan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this update took. But it's finally here, so enjoy!

The camp was small, sheltered in an out of the way grove of trees off the main road where they could have some privacy. They were close to Denerim – according to that fool Alistair they’d get there the next day sometime.

She hoped he was more capable at navigation than his intelligence would suggest. (Although even a part of her recognized that Alistair was far more capable than she’d like to give him credit for being.)

Morrigan exhaled her annoyance and turned her gaze to the battered black cover of the grimoire beneath her finger tips. A sheepish - _Don’t tell Wynne where you got it_ \- had been the only thing the Warden had said when he’d handed it to her before he’d retreated back to the other fire.

She wondered how he had known, or had he simply guessed at the power that his fellow Circle mages had squandered by keeping this book locked away? Assuming that she _could_ in fact decipher it.

Laughter drew her eyes to the other fire – they were telling stories or jokes, too far away for her to hear but the loudest of the exclamations. Zevran was being accused of making something up by Alistair.

The Warden was smiling freely, as he sat cross legged on the ground so Leliana could braid his hair. She was trying to find some new way to style it that would suit the Warden while keeping it neater than his magic typically allowed for.

Falcon was relaxed with that Orlesian bard, but his eyes tracked the assassin’s movements though it was now Alistair who was telling a story, miming a shield enthusiastically.

As if he’d sensed her gaze, the Warden had turned his gaze to meet her own, and waved her over – an invitation to join, to be a part of the warmth and comradery instead of isolated at her own sad little fire. A part of her wanted to accept, to ignore her mother’s warnings that if she came to care for them that what must be done would only be that much more difficult.

Morrigan shook her head and lifted the book up a bit to show that she was busy. And there was a slight nod before the Warden’s attention was pulled back to his friends.

 _Friend_.

She’d seen the concept played out across dreams, but had never had one of her own. Even when she had traveled into civilization she had never trusted enough to let people near.

The idea conjured thoughts of Merrill fussing over her herbs, and the way Tamlen had smiled at the idea of being Merrill’s Voice. Of memories watching the stars through holes in a forest canopy that were not quite her own. And finally of heart wrenching cries in the darkness that she could never have answered -

And glancing up to watch them again, she wondered, at what life would have been if Alistair’s precious Duncan had been in the Brecilian Forest instead of the Tower that fateful day.

The Warden she had been watching then might have been different – a taller elf with a long brunette braid and eyes the color of the summer leaves with the _vallaslin_ of his people marked harshly across his features to throw one half his face into eternal shadow.

She missed Theron Mahariel without ever met him.

She missed the wolf-like spirit that had called out to her soul, echoing the wilds and promising a safe place at his side if only she ventured out to find him.

Morrigan closed her eyes against the urge to cry – she could not show weakness…not now…

“Our Warden believes that you need to eat,” Zevran’s voice was cheery, but as she met the Antivan’s gaze she knew he’d seen the chink in her armor while she had not known the assassin was approaching. “But dear Leliana has claimed his company for the time being so I have been sent in his stead.”

“And have you poisoned it?” she accepted the bowl of stew none-the-less. Sten had cooked that evening and despite his grumblings regarding the lack of spices the Qunari soldier was rivaled only by Leliana in skill.

“Still on that?” the Antivan sounded amused as he dropped into a seat at her fire entirely uninvited.

It wasn’t that she disliked Zevran’s company.

He _was_ good company when he was not amusing himself with poor attempts to charm herself or the others in their company. Not nearly as foolish as the Wardens and he wasn’t hung up on some ridiculous religion like Leliana and Sten.

And his skills were not without use, the way that he was always at Falcon’s back with his daggers flashing and a flirty smirk as he protected the Warden was…comforting. And loathe as she was to admit it, she enjoyed his stories of Antiva and the wild anecdotes of Crow life as much as Falcon did.

Still there was _something_ about him that she couldn’t help disliking.

 “You do not fear the Crows at all?” she asked suddenly, setting the bowl aside for now. She would eat once she had her privacy returned to her. Not before.

The question got her a measuring stare, “I think of it more as my desire to leave them far exceeds the fear I possess of them.”

“You think the Grey Wardens will give you safe harbor once all this is done?” she demanded – “Surely you are not so naïve.”

Only, Falcon would unquestioningly give _Zevran_ safe harbor from his enemies for as long as the assassin permitted him to. Any mage would go through any lengths to protect their Voice, wouldn’t they?

Her fingers clenched on the black leather binding of her mother’s book.

“I am willing to take my chances,” honey colored eyes rested on her hands, not her face.

“And if you are wrong?”

“Then I will be dead,” the answer was far more airy than the words would have implied. “One does not do what I do and fear death so very greatly.”

She glared at him – she could understand why Falcon watched the assassin as if memorizing everything.

But also with fury for the implication that _she_ feared death. She did not. “There are worse fates than death.”

“And one of them is being unable to choose which master you serve,” the assassin’s eyes left her to find Falcon at the other fire. A softer smile playing across his lips, “Trust me, my dear, I am well pleased with _my_ current direction.”

The question, the taunt, at the end was silent but she understood it well enough.

Was _she_ pleased with her current direction?

It twas not been her choice to join the Wardens. The ritual was important, was powerful but…it twas not her choice.

Flemeth had forbidden her from going to Mahariel. Forbidden her from finding a way to save her Voice…and even waking as she stared into the fire before her, she could hear the man’s voice crying out in the darkness for someone, anyone, to show him a path out of it.

The ritual had to happen – and it would be a betrayal too great for the Wardens to forgive her but…she did not need protection as this assassin did.

She needed only her cage broken and then freedom was _hers_ and hers alone.

Morrigan lifted her eyes to watch the Warden with his companions, her decision made.


	27. Falcon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to be longer but I've decided to split it into two shorter parts instead.

Denerim was a city full of bustle and trade, and refugees from the encroaching Blight. The noise of its market utterly overwhelming, enough so that even Morrigan was somewhat cowed by it.

Well…perhaps just he and Morrigan were overwhelmed:

Sten viewed the market with open disdain. As he viewed most things Ferelden. Nothing new. Leliana seemed _more_ relaxed here than at the road, slipping away to chat pleasantly with one of the merchants. A woman with an Orlesian accent who was selling luxuries. For Alistair Denerim was familiar, a place he knew because the Wardens were headquartered in the palace nearby. Both also had business to attend to in the city. Wynne seemed as unflappable as ever.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t remembered how large Denerim was, he did, but at the same time even Lothering and Redcliffe had felt crowded and noisy to him. This market place where he’d once flitted in and out between people, tiny fingers reaching into pockets or distracting people so that his cousins could make off with better scores, and it seemed _smaller_ than he remembered at the same time.

The contradiction made his head hurt as the mage tried to find his bearings.

Zevran slipped nearer to him, a hand on his hip pulled him away from the crowd, and the murmur in his ear lost to the noise around them or to the fact that Falcon could feel the hum of his magic as it responded to the Antivan’s closeness. Either way he could only make a confused noise in response.

 “Are you alright?” Leliana’s worried inquiry cut through the pleasant hum and Falcon blinked at Zev and then turned his gaze to the others, hoping his ears weren’t as red as they felt.

The mage forced himself to pull away from the touch, however much as it was tempting to stay with the hand resting there - an anchor to keep him from drowning in Denerim’s chaos he couldn’t. He had to be the Warden, there was too much to do, and too much risk that Zevran would notice if he strayed near for too long.

Loopy’s muscular shoulder pressed into his thigh, and he dropped his hand to the dog’s bulky head. Not quite as effective but enough that he didn’t feel like a kite whose string had snapped in a storm.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just a little overwhelming to be back.”

The assassin let his hand drop to his side, and pulled away, the space left between them now deliberate and as coldly deafening as the previous sensation from his Voice had not been.

“We’ll need rooms, somewhere,” Falcon said. “Not here in the market, closer to the docks maybe?”

“I think the Pearl.” “Might I suggest the Pearl?”

Zevran and Leliana both exchanged a look, as they’d spoken at the same time. Leliana smiled and Zevran gave her a flirty wink that was greeted with an eye roll.

Alistair’s eyes had widened a little, “ _Really_? That place, but, isn’t it a _you know_?”

“It most definitely is, my friend,” Zevran grinned unabashedly.

Morrigan had begun to draw herself up like a cat when you flicked water their way, all insulted pride and wrath.

“It is a good place to hide,” Leliana commented, “Enough people come and go that we won’t be marked upon and it is very popular with visitors to the city. We’ll blend in with other travelers, and any guards that visit will be… _preoccupied_.”

“Zev, can you and Sten go get that arranged? We’ll need a few days, probably,” Falcon looked to the assassin, once he’d gotten the nod of confirmation he continued. “Morrigan, Wynne – one of you go with them. Set up protective wards if you can do it discreetly.”

“I can go, it will be good to put my feet up for a little while,” Wynne smiled – a relief since Morrigan was looking like the claws were about to come out at the idea of accompanying Zevran anywhere, let alone to a brothel.

“Once you have the rooms taken care of feel free to do what you want, just don’t get arrested _please_. Al, Leli, you two had business to take care of right. Let’s get that done and find Genitivi, he’s supposed to live near here.”

Morrigan opted to abandon them to go with to the Pearl after all, presumably so she might have the rest of the day spent avoiding them.

His magic itched beneath his skin, and as the others left to arrange their lodgings his eyes rested on the closed gates across the way. The alienage was through there, shut and guarded – plague or rioting. Both probably, as a tattered corpse was on display as a message to any law breakers.

Leliana’s would be murderer, Marjolane, was easy enough to deal with and afterwards Leliana had quietly asked Alistair if he knew the way to the Pearl. When his fellow Warden had confirmed he did she’d taken her leave of them – she needed to think, she’d said.

Alistair’s sister proved _much_ more difficult.

Goldanna proved to be…not what Alistair had expected.

Alistair stood in the market place staring at the sky as he tried not to be hurt by the woman’s rejection.

“This is the family I’ve been wondering about all my life? I can’t believe it,” he looked to Falcon apologetically. “I…I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do? I…I feel like a complete idiot.”

Falcon tried to keep the flinch off his face – the one that drew his eyes over Alistair’s shoulder to that sealed gate for just a moment before he managed to return his focus to the other Warden.

“Al,” he reached out taking his larger friend’s arm in his hand and squeezed it gently, “You _do_ have a family, well, a brother anyways.”

Alistair stared at him for a moment before Falcon was engulfed in a crushingly tight hug, “Thank you.”

The hug lingered, the other Warden’s shaky breath evening out a little, and when Alistair pulled away he looked more pensive but the pain was still there, “Thank you, Falcon, for coming with and…everything.”

“You’ll be okay?” he asked gently.

“I…I need some time to think,” Alistair admitted, trying to muster a smile. “I want to go for a walk…would you be alright on your own?”

“I’ll have Loopy with me, I think I’ll be okay – just be careful. We’re still being hunted. I’ll see you at the Pearl.”

Alistair nodded, and clasped his shoulder before he wandered away as Falcon wondered if letting him be on his own after what had just happened was the right choice, even if Al _had_ asked for that time.

Watching the other Warden’s broad shoulders disappear around a corner towards the Chantry he let himself relax a little. Al _was_ Andrastian for all the Chantry had been no kinder to the would-be Templar than it had the mage, if he was seeking his faith after what had happened Falcon didn’t think he could blame him.

At the same time _his_ spending too much time near a Chantry full of Templars was probably not the wisest course of action.

Putting on his best, friendliest smile he wandered the market place. He needed to find where Genitivi lived and go talk to the man whose writings had only instilled the sort of cold dread at their mention he’d thought the Chant was capable of.


	28. Zevran

Arrangements at the Pearl made – surprisingly easily, really, once Sten had had enough of the rowdy mercenaries and proceeded to intimidate them out of the brothel – he left the others to bicker over room assignments.

He had no real preference there…well he _did_ but he’d sooner stab his foot than try to angle for sharing with the Warden. Most of the Warden’s people _didn’t_ trust him for one, and for two, he wasn’t entirely certain that a certain black haired pirate was as absorbed in her Wicked Grace game as she was pretending to be. Especially since she’d lost the last two rounds.

He’d find a chance to talk to Bela in private, a quick wink and smirk was all he allowed himself at the time.

Then he slipped out the Pearl’s back door to make his way back to the market.

The Warden was a Denerim native, perhaps, but even barren of life and haunted by monsters he’d seen the Circle. It was not a place one grew up in accustomed to such crowds. It’d nearly overwhelmed the Warden once, and it would make him feel better if he could see – no, that was not right. His interest was only in insuring that his protection against the Crows remained unharmed, yes?

The Warden must have parted ways with Alistair and Leliana at some point since he found the other elf in the shade of the building across from the alienage gate.

Drawing near he took up a place leaning against the building that the Warden was crouched to scratch the belly of the wriggling burglary-inclined Mabari.

A streak of soot on the back of other elf’s pale neck and the smell of slightly singed hair clung to them both. Zevran frowned a little without realizing it, his eyes scanning over the Warden more carefully. There didn’t seem to be any injuries….

“Genitivi’s assistant was replaced with a mage,” the Warden said by way of explanation when he glanced up to catch the assassin’s gaze so intent on him.

“Tell me, dear Warden, do you truly find it impossible to stay out of trouble?”

“Well I’ve yet to be chased off by the guard, so I suppose it’s less trouble than I used to get into,” Falcon mused. “Did things at the Pearl go well?”

“Our Qunari friend is quite the charmer,” Zevran laughed. “No need for such a frown, things went well.”

“Because of _Sten_?” he stared. “This have anything to do with a group of mercenaries causing trouble?”

“Perhaps.”

“I hope they were breathing when they left, I promised the guard captain I’d do my best not to immolate, impale, or otherwise kill them when I got them to leave.”

“Truly?” he chuckled.

“Mhmm,” he the Warden smiled, standing up again. “Did you need something in the market?”

“I -” Zevran hesitated, he’d come looking for the Warden after all, “I have already found what it is I was looking for.”

Why hesitate admitting that though? He had flirted with the Warden openly enough, and Falcon had been receptive. Perhaps it was the knowledge he intended to slip away and visit Bela that night if things proved favorable – though even that thought was met with a prick of guilt.

“Let’s go back together then,” the Warden suggested. “Loopy’s good company and all but he’s not very good at distractions.”

Zevran looked to the sealed gate – plagues and rioting were usually what shut an alienage up – “You told Leliana you were from the alienage here, no?”

The mage glanced at him and shrugged, “As long as I can remember. I was born further North, a farm nearer to Amaranthine. I don’t remember it - plague took my mother, so we were brought to live here with my Uncle and his family.”

“Very generous of them.”

“Auntie Adaia was like that,” he sighed, beginning to walk without looking back, “I wouldn’t be welcome.”

Zevran fell in step with the Warden on the side not occupied by the oversized slobbering hound of his.

“One day, when this is all over, you should see the dock markets of Rialto,” Zevran smiled. “This Denerim of yours would not seem so impressive then.”

“Leliana tells me Val Royeaux has the best shops.” The slight smirk was better than the darkening expression that had previously been there – the Warden had taken the bait, good.

“Hah,” he gave a laugh and began to describe how the wonders of the Rialto docks far exceeded anything that Orlais could offer.

As they approached one of the gates to leave the market though a young boy approached at a run, “Message for you, m’lord!”

Falcon startled as he was handed the letter and the boy grinned, “More things to deliver, goodbye!” And off again.

 _No begging for a tip_? Zevran frowned tracking the boy through the market while the Warden unfolded the paper he’d been delivered.

“The Antivan Crows send their regards,” the Warden mused as he passed Zevran the letter for inspection.

The note was brief, but completely clear – and invitation to the Warden to do business with the Antivan Crows.

“A trap?”

“A poor one, I should think,” Zevran frowned.

“Mm…” the Warden’s eyes trailed from Zev to the Mabari before he ran his hand through his hair and nodded briefly, “Let’s go see what this is about.”

The assassin made certain that his blades would come free easily if the need arose before following the Warden and his dog into the Gnawed Noble.

The Warden’s turned his head both directions to take note of the two men standing with their back turned away as they entered. A flick of his eyes would have done the trick but it was likely that he wanted them aware that he was paying attention to their presence.

The Crow Master Ignacio, who Zevran cursed himself silently for not recognizing earlier as he passed by the market, watched them. Taking as many notes about the Warden and his companions as the Warden was filing for about him.

“You here about a note?” he asked the Warden, “Maybe we have some things to talk about…”

It didn’t _seem_ like an ambush. It seemed like a Crow attempting to make a deal with a man that had proven himself dangerous enough for caution but not dangerous enough to avoid approaching.

“Just see that the conversation stays civil,” he glared, “If this is a trap-”

Ignacio gave him a sharp look, cruel and angry and promising pain if he did not silence himself. And Zevran hated himself for that was enough to silence him for all he seethed quietly.

“Zevran, is it?” the disdain the man held for him was clear, and deep in his gut he _knew_ it was deserved. He was a failure and a traitor, and so many other things, none of which deserved to be allowed to speak. “You are Taliesin’s responsibility.”

It was just his imagination that the Warden stiffened then, wasn’t it? He couldn’t afford to look.

“Other Crows may try to kill you, but in my eyes, you’re already dead. So you are of no notice. But the Warden here,” Ignacio paused, turning his eyes to the Warden in a way that Zevran _knew_ was meant to annoy him. Either by sparking jealousy over his skills being overlooked or because his attentions for the mage earlier had been noticed. “ _He_ is of great interest to me.”

“The Crows have a contract for my life,” the Warden stated.

He was shorter than Ignacio but he pulled his chin up and met Ignacio’s gaze with the same challenge leveled in his demeanor that had been leveled at the Templars in the Circle.

“I can’t stress enough that _I_ wasn’t hired to do anything. An associate was, and he has failed,” a glance at Zevran returned to the disgust from before, “and failed _badly_.”

Ignacio wasn’t wrong, but it still hurt to hear. Though even if he _had_ attempted the job properly he was not sure that things would have ended any differently. The rebellious mutter slipped out for his own pride’s sake though: “I’d like to see you do any better.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Ignacio snapped, suddenly furious. “That is a contract I would never take!”

The guards had turned from their places to evaluate the situation as the Mabari rumbled deep in its throat, his threatening stance a reflection of the Warden’s own shift in posture, his feet slid into a position more suited for casting.

They made it clear: Zevran was one of them and they _would_ protect him…

“Ahem,” the Master cleared his throat, realizing his misstep.

Zevran was certain in the Warden’s position most Crows would not have defended him. _Zevran_ would have allowed the older Crow to rebuke one of his unchallenged and then punished that subordinate further once in private.

“A client can always hire more…help,” Ignacio continued as the Mabari quieted though the dog did not return to his sitting position. “If the job isn’t done the first time. But I’m hoping we can make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Zevran, is this true?”

Still confused by the show of loyalty towards his person the question, and the trust it implied (though, perhaps, trusting the Crow one knew to the one one did not was just common sense rather than _trust_ ) caught him off guard a little.

“I’ve only heard of the one time the entire House of Crows was hired for a job,” his tone didn’t have any of its usual playful arrogance to it. “Ignacio has the right of it. Generally, it is one master, one job.”

“I don’t kill without cause.”

“Sounds very noble. But everything’s a matter of perspective,” the Crow’s eyes narrowed – reassessing the Warden’s worth, perhaps. Idealism was not a quality approved of among the Crows.

“Assassination tends to qualify as ‘without cause’, perspective or no.”

“I suspect we leave far fewer bodies in our wake than you do, and usually the people we kill deserve it,” the Warden flinched at the words. “Death follows certain souls; you cannot deny that.”

“I want no more Crows after us.”

“That I cannot do. One master has a contract on you,” Ignacio shook his head. “But you help us out, maybe if that master asks for help he’ll just get silence, yes?”

“How would it work?”

Zevran was startled to hear the Warden even _considering_ it. From what he’d seen the Warden took the path of least bloodshed, tried to save everyone. He kept the surprise from his face, it would do no good for Ignacio to read it from him.

“I hand you a scroll. You read it, you learn about someone interesting. If you find out something happens to him, something unfortunate, then if we talk again I give money for ‘letting me know’. You don’t like what’s on the scroll, don’t do anything. Maybe he has an accident and someone else tells me all about it.”

The Warden crossed his arms, considering quietly, letting the silence stretch as he mulled the possibilities over.

At last he outstretched his hand towards Ignacio, “I’ll take the scroll.”

“It makes for fine reading,” the assassin passed the document over.

The Warden didn’t read it, instead tucking it one-handed into the small bag he kept his potions and herbs in, for later.

“You’re a cautious little weasel, Ignacio,” he wasn’t sure what the game was but there was too much here for him to _not_ say anything. “What’s your angle? – if you’re playing us false…”

“My dance is not for you,” Ignacio glared but held his temper in check this time, “I need to be real…honest sometimes. And I can say I haven’t asked anyone to do _anything_. I’ve given someone something interesting to read.”

“And you think that will save your hide when they nail it to a wall?” legal technicalities wouldn’t save one from hanging, not in Ferelden where trial by combat was far more popular than lawyers shouting one another hoarse.

“You are already dead in eyes, whoreson, take care that I don’t ‘learn’ otherwise,” Ignacio snapped.

Zevran would have opened his mouth to reply but instead a sort of crackling buzz caught his attention – and confused him momentarily.

The Warden was the one holding Ignacio’s gaze as he lifted the hand that had fisted the electricity and shook it out, sparks dancing harmlessly in the air between him and the Master assassin. A warning, or a threat – but one far more potent than an angry war dog from earlier – or perhaps just the Warden’s fraying temper.

“If that’s all,” Ignacio said tightly, “Luck be to you.”

Zevran walked out ahead of Falcon, and waited until they were in the open air of the market to turn on the Warden, “Why accept their offer?”

“I’m not bound to carry out the contract if I disagree with it,” the mage pointed out, massaging his temple lightly as he walked for the gate they’d been headed to originally. “Ignacio wouldn’t hand me something he wasn’t certain I’d complete.”

“So, you turn yourself into a killer on the chance that he’s being honest? Crows _lie_ , Warden, he is just using you.”

 “I think he’s handing me names of Loghain’s allies, and that the Crows are not entirely in agreement over the fate of Ferelden’s throne,” the Warden sounded tired. “And I make his job much easier if an outside party does the killing. I’m meant to be the gravity, not the Crow, Zev. It seems most likely the people Ignacio points me towards are ones that would attack _me_ on sight. In his place I wouldn’t risk pointing a Warden at someone I might talk to. I want to know what game Ignacio thinks he’s playing.”

The mage stopped walking to look at him, “Do you think I made the wrong choice?”

Zevran met the dark blue gaze, and he wasn’t sure.

The idea of Falcon involving himself further with the Crows didn’t sit well with Zevran, but the Crows were already hunting him. Taliesin – his heart had hurt to hear his suspicions confirmed – would _laugh_ while he cut the Warden’s throat. _If_ he made the kill quickly, he did not always when the prey had been troublesome.

And as Falcon would be blamed by Taliesin for Zevran’s own betrayal the mage would certainly qualify as ‘troublesome’ in his former lover’s eyes.

 “I am with you.”

“Considering you agreed to fight an Archdemon with me, Zev, you being with me _doesn’t_ actually mean I’m making the right choice.”

He laughed, “Well, you’ve got me there. As for your question, I…do not know,” he admitted. “That is all I can say.”

Falcon nodded thoughtfully, but started walking again, glancing over with a sort of shy smile, “Will you tell me more of the docks? You were telling me about a café you liked, I think.”

“Mmh,” he hummed thoughtfully. “I have had enough reminders of Antiva today, my dear Warden. Can I ask you a question instead?”

“Of course – always.”

“Why ‘Loopy’?”

Falcon laughed – having expected a far more serious question, no doubt. In fact Zevran had _intended_ on asking a more serious one but they had had enough seriousness for a short time, he thought. There would be time enough for his other curiosities later.

“It’s Tevene – the word for ‘wolf’ is _Lupus_ ,” he smiled. “Only when I came up with the idea that I would have a dog when I left the Tower I was...eight, maybe? My ability to read Tevene remains atrocious to this day, but it used to be worse.”

He smiled too walking beside them, trying to imagine the young elf. “Why dogs? No offense to your favorite pillow but he smells like several dogs.”

“Disappointing as it might be, I _am_ still Ferelden. I happen to like dogs,” he grinned. “Besides, a dog is a lot more realistic than a tiger. Anders was going to feed Ser Pounce-a-Lot Templars for breakfast.”

“This Anders fellow seems very reasonable,” he observed dryly. “The one you sought in the Circle?”

“The escape artist,” Falcon nodded, relaxed as Zevran led them down the pathways towards the Pearl, more unguarded than usual without their other companions around. “I was in the Tower longer but Anders is kind and brave and of all the mages in the Tower Duncan should have taken _him_ , not me. He would make a much better Warden. You’d have liked him, I think.”

“Perhaps,” Zevran mused, “But I rather like the Warden you became.”

The elf stared at him a little, blushing – and too startled to see Loopy as the dog’s shoulders hit the back of his knees and sent him pitching into Zevran.

The assassin caught them both, smirking down at the mage now caught against his chest, and mentally promising to find some meaty bone for the Mabari as bribery to do that trick more often.

Falcon’s eyes were wide a little, his mouth slightly open as he seemed caught for a moment by how close they were to one another, dark blue eyes tracing over Zevran’s face, before he turned an even bright crimson and pulled away. “I, uh. Sorry.”

He felt a little sad at quick retreat – but he didn’t want to push either – the Warden would come around.

“The Pearl is just there,” he nodded to the building as they approached it.

Inside the Pearl they had to dodge those fleeing from a brawl – Isabela looking proud as she followed after to make sure they were gone. The duelist smirked playfully as she sheathed her daggers, her eyes trailing over him.

“And look who we have here. Come to apologize for leaving me bereft of my lord husband and vanishing without trace?”

 _That was the game she wanted to play, oh, very well._ “You know it was just business, Isabela – business that turned out well for you, I see. You inherited the ship, I take it?”

“I suppose I never did like the greasy bastard, and the _Siren_ treats me far better than she ever did him,” Isabela sounded _almost_ like a professional and not a pirate captain there.

The Warden had that jaw-tensing he did when he was lying about something, he’d been laughing and blushing just moments before but now he’d tensed up about _something_.

“You two know each other,” the Warden didn’t manage to make it a question but the intention was clear.

“Indeed. This is Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn,” he nodded, “And Isabela, you will no doubt be amused to learn that I travel in the company of a Grey Warden."

“A Grey Warden?” her eyes swept over the young man in front of her, appraising the elf – her gazed lingered on the staff across his back. “Charmed, sweet thing.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” the Warden shifted, his eyes scanning the room, looking for the others.

“Why don’t we sit, we can have a drink and play a game?” she grinned, Isabela couldn’t have missed the lack of interest directed at her by the mage but she still hooked his arm with hers to drag him to the table.

Zevran followed, curious as to her purpose and shrugging when the Warden looked back in askance.

“I, uh, I don’t know how to play Wicked Grace,” he tried.

“It’s easy to learn,” she grinned. “But difficult to master.”

Zevran slipped beside him on the bench that Bela had set her poor captive down at. “Not unlike sex, but then, I think many things are like sex.”

“Let us be glad you’re much better at that then you are cards,” she teased.

“Alas,” he shook his head as she went to deal him a card. “I will help our Warden, let us see if I can’t teach him?”

Bela smirked as she watched the Warden blush, Zevran leaning close to whisper instructions and advice. He’d certainly get teased regarding the Warden’s blush later – though he also knew Isabela was likely to take the proud glint in his eyes regarding the sole winning hand that his ‘student’ lay down as a challenge.

“Falcon,” Wynne’s voice distracted them and made him pull away like a startled cat.

“I should see what she wants,” the Warden said apologetically. “It was nice to meet you, Isabela.”

“He’s _sweet_ ,” Isabela’s smirk was ruthless at Zevran’s expense. “What changed your mind? Why are _you_ playing hero, Zev. He doesn’t need rescuing, except from himself, maybe. But Wardens are like that, throwing themselves on impossible odds.”

Zevran considered it, considered lying to Isabela about his reasons too: “Spite. It annoyed me that they ruined our fabulously thought out plan. I couldn’t let them just kill me after that…”

“Why stay then? The Crows will find you even faster with him. He’s not quite short enough he doesn’t draw attention, Zev.”

His eyes drifted to where Falcon had been dragged into mediating an argument between their little bands’ other two mages.

“ _Oh_ , Zevran,” she tracked his gaze. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to drag him to the _Siren_ so you won’t go plunging into insanity at his heels?”

The former Crow shook his head ruefully, wishing he had it in him to take that choice away from the Warden, to drag him clear of the Blight and to freedom somewhere safe from the Archdemon until Grey Wardens with more years than he and Alistair put together mustered in defense of the realms of men.

Casavir was approaching with a face like a storm cloud – though Zevran couldn’t recall the man ever wearing a different expression when the assassin was nearby. Isabela trusted the man but her first mate had no care for her friend and former lover.

A few murmured words to Isabela and she nodded. A soft kiss on the cheek – startlingly sweet and chaste as their partings went – and she was returning to the _Siren’s Call_ to fix whatever problem it was that required her attention.

The Warden returned to sit across the table form him instead of beside, “Will you see her later?”

“Perhaps,” Zevran admitted, “With Isabela it is difficult to know which way the wind blows.”

The Warden was silent again, almost sullen, for a time, sitting across from him as Zevran mused over his own thoughts.

“What do you intend to do with me once this business with the Blight is over with?”

“Wait, what?” the Warden frowned, “Nothing. I mean, you go if you want. I told you, I won’t hold you to that oath.”

“And if I didn’t wish to leave?”

 _Now_ the Warden was looking at him like he was growing a second head. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“How should I know? I cannot see the future,” if the Warden was too dense to have put it together for himself as of yet he wasn’t going to push too far. A brothel wasn’t the place for such confessions. “What if I liked it here? What if we became fond of each other, hmm? Stranger things _have_ happened.”

That got a soft laugh and an agreement: “Stranger things, indeed.”


	29. Falcon

There was something to be said for not annoying dragons. Really. It was a good plan. A fine plan.  One he was going to strive to follow for the rest of his life…which was of course a lie as the Archdemon was a dragon too and they were definitely aiming to make it very cranky.

Exhaustion pulled at him as he choked down a lyrium potion and headed for where he’d last seen Wynne and Morrigan.

Morrigan had taken a brutal strike by the dragon before the warriors had managed to harry its attention away from those in the party with less armor.

Wynne knelt at her side, magic pulsing between them while Loopy whined softly at her head.

“Hush that incessant noise,” Morrigan snapped at the dog, cringing either in pain or because her wrath only resulted in a worried, slimy tongue being passed over her face. Yellow eyes seized on him as he approached. “Should you not be seeking the ashes of your dead prophetess?”

He stayed back – he wasn’t sure how delicate the spells Wynne was working were and he didn’t want his own magic to interfere. Particularly with how ill-suited he was to healing.

“I needed to see if you were alright first,” he answered his prickly fellow mage.

“She will be fine, I simply need time,” Wynne’s voice was quiet, her focus elsewhere. “Are there any other injuries?”

“Nothing that can’t be handled by a potion,” seeing the crossness that was turning Morrigan’s eyes to molten gold he straightened. “Sten, stay with Morrigan and Wynne, there’s a chance there are still cultists about and…see if the dragon has anything useful…”

He wasn’t sure if the Qunari would agree to the order – just that morning Sten had already expressed a dissatisfaction with his and Alistair’s leadership – well _his_ leadership. Alistair wasn’t viewed as the leader of this band (something that Falcon would privately panic over once he had enough time to breathe and he wasn’t wondering what shade of purple his ribs would be in the morning).

Still Sten was the best choice to act as guard over the other mages despite his distaste for magic itself – he was _fairly_ certain that the three mages in the party had the soldier’s respect, even if it was begrudging.

Alistair and Leliana were Andrastian. The proper faithful kind, the sort that believed the urn held the ashes of a woman blessed by their Maker, not just dust permeated by an extremely powerful magic – _if_ the ashes even existed.

He wanted to be certain that there was _someone_ in the room who wouldn’t get smited – smote? – as a heathen for setting eyes on the Urn. And Andraste was Ferelden according to the stories – if there was _one_ thing he was certain it was that she’d like Mabari which meant Loopy was going.

Taking Zevran with…well, that was more selfish.

He ought to leave the assassin behind to help Sten but having him near was helping keep the twelve years of Chantry-taught fear at bay. If Andraste really _did_ hate mages like some of her priestesses would have one believe then whatever happened past those temple doors was going to be very unpleasant.

“If the mage finishes quickly I will take them to safety,” Sten informed him. “Do not tarry longer, Warden.”

Falcon nodded, but before he left he took most of the remaining lyrium potions from his satchel and set them within Wynne’s reach.

“Morrigan?” Alistair asked as he signaled them to gather.

“She’ll be back to swooping in no time,” the reassurance bought a slight smile from Alistair. “Sten will look out for them and get them back to the camp if Wynne’s finished before we’re back. We don’t have any healers with us, so _be careful_. Ration your potions.”

“You’re worried about what’s in there?”

He gave a slight shrug, “The dragon was here because she could feel the magic in this place. It’s seeped into everything here, Al. I don’t know if we’ll find proof of the Maker’s Bride in there but we _will_ find something old and powerful.”

It was like the Tower on Lake Calenhad, ancient magic had seeped through everything into the very bedrock and thinned the veil there but so much more _strongly_.

He wasn’t _sure_ but it didn’t feel like there were demons here though, spirits perhaps, in large numbers, but there was none of that itchy pull on the back of his mind from the Fade that accompanied catching the attention of their less friendly cousins. Not that the sensation of being watched was any more comforting.

Still the scarcity of demons might explain why none of the cult’s mages had turned blood magic against them despite the evidence they’d found of blood rituals in the village. Still that was a question to ponder another time as he set his shoulder against one half of the ancient wooden doors into the temple and shoved them ajar, Alistair shoving against the other half.

Loopy trotted through the opening first, nose to the stone, but the temple inside was silent save for the groaning echo of their intrusion.

“After you?” Falcon offered Alistair who adjusted his shield to his arm and drew his sword before pushing forward. The mage followed next with their rogues slipping into the shadows after them.

Tevinter in construction and alive with magic, it gradually filled the air around them with the unsettling whispers of a thousand year old funeral dirge whose words – if not the sense of loss behind them - were lost to the erosion of time.

“Maker,” Alistair breathed.

Zevran appeared at his back, eyes casting about the great empty room, “Well this isn’t creepy at all, no?”

Falcon’s choked laugh had Leliana shooting the pair a glare as she stepped closer to the walls to inspect one of the statues – Andraste carrying a shield. It was a standard depiction of the prophetess though the primal mage had always preferred the bowls of fire.

The mage tucked his smile away and stepped towards the door.

“I bid you welcome, pilgrim,” the Guardian’s ghostly voice greeted him as he jumped backwards before its form had fully materialized.

“…the Guardian I take it?” Alistair asked, more alert as he came up on Falcon’s side. Zevran and Leliana seemed just as cautious and ready to attack. Loopy though – the Mabari sniffed at the man (spirit?) before sitting, his head to the side. The dog usually had a good sense about what was truly dangerous…

“Yes, I am the Guardian of the Ashes,” grey eyes set in a weathered face turned back towards him and he couldn’t help feeling like the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, “I have waited years for this. It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful and prepare the way for the faithful come to revere Andraste. For years beyond counting I have been here, and shall I remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea.”

“And this task – will it ever be done?”

“I do not know – and I do not question.”

A spirit, Falcon decided, or someone who in death became very like one. He wasn’t really sure which one was preferable to deal with besides _neither_.

“You know we’ve come for the Urn,” it was a statement. The Guardian, whatever he was, was not the thing commanding the power in the air but rather another part of the temple. But created and maintained by the same magic that brought the echoes of the dead mourners to their ears.

“You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall, _if_ you prove yourself worthy.”

He hoped the incredulity stayed off his face – honoring Andraste was not so much the goal as taking advantage of whatever magic had imbued this place with the power to give shape to the faith of those that had founded it.

“And if I am not worthy?” he asked at last – drawing a concerned glanced from Alistair and Leliana he chose to ignore for the time being.

“Then you will not come to the Ashes,” “It is not my place to decide your worthiness – the Gauntlet will do that. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not…”

The implications hung heavy in the air.

Quietly, he nodded, “Alright.”

“Before you go, there is something I must ask. I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past: your suffering and the suffering of others. Jowan was discovered by the Templars – you were helping him. Solona was at Ostagar when the Darkspawn overran it whilst you were saved from the Tower of Ishal.”

The weight of the guilt made him step back and jerk his eyes away from the Guardian’s heavy gaze.

“Tell me, do you think you failed them?”

The question hung in the air unanswered for what felt like a millennia before he forced his throat to work again.

“…yes – of course.”

The whisper was barely louder than the half-heard chanting but it was clearly audible to all in the chamber. He kept his eyes from meeting any of their gazes – he wasn’t worthy of being a Warden, of the faith they were putting in him.

“Thank you. That is all I wished to know.”

“You are too hard on yourself,” Alistair murmured, voice distant in his ears, even as his fellow Warden’s hand touched his shoulder. “No one’s perfect.”

“You could not have known what would happen,” Leliana’s reassurance followed his – he could see the worry on her face from the corner of his eye, “You did what you thought was best.”

“And now the self-flagellation? That is what comes next in these things, no?”

He tried to laugh, or smile, something to reassure them that he was alright. He couldn’t bring himself to stir or react.

“And what of those who follow you?” There was a shift in the currents of magic in the air – a sudden release as the Guardian’s attention moved onwards. The power that had held him caught in the being’s attention loosening and it felt like he could breathe again.

Closing his eyes Falcon only half listened to Alistair and Leliana as they faced the first test for themselves.

“Oh is it my turn?” Zevran’s voice was an anchor, even dripping with displeasure, and he focused on that, casting his own troubled thoughts aside to bury the doubts and regrets clinging to him for another time. Or, preferably, never. “Hurrah. I’m so excited.”

“Many have died at your hand. But is there any you regret more than a woman by the name of-”

“How do you know of that?” the assassin cut him off before the name – before _Rinna’s_ name – could be uttered.

“I know much – it is allowed to me,” the Guardian was unfazed by the interruption. “However the question stands – do you regret-”

Zevran cut him off again, his tone angry: “Yes. The Answer is, yes, if that’s what you wish to know. Now move on.”

“The way ahead is open,” the Guardian spoke as his form disappeared. Beyond where the armored being had stood the doors further into the temple swung open. “You may proceed.”

“Are you alright?” he asked his companions – only Loopy seemed unaffected by this place.

Alistair shook his head slightly, “Not really – but I’ll be fine.”

The rogues didn’t answer, their own thoughts still caught on the memories the Guardian’s words must have dragged forward.

“Onward then,” the mage muttered, patting Loopy’s blocky head as he stepped through into the next room.

This room was larger, and obviously occupied.

Ghostly spirits stood silently along both sides of the room, and while they turned their heads to watch they made no other move as the group proceeded. The door out of the room was – predictably – sealed.

With a sigh he turned his gaze back towards the spirits.

The silent observers were dressed in fashions belonging to another age, but some were recognizable. That one wore the dress of an Alamarri, that one the robes of a Magister, and the elvish archer – the only one who wasn’t a human – dressed in armor that was strikingly _elven,_ like an early design for what the knights of the Dales were depicted wearing.

Chewing his lip he went back to the beginning and approached the Magister.

“She wields the broken sword, and separates true kinds from tyrants. Of what do I speak?”

“A…riddle?” Leliana’s head tilted to the side.

Alistair hesitated, “Should we answer him – it?”

He gave a slight shrug to the Templar and turned his gaze back to the figure, not daring speak anything that might be mistaken for an answer.

A Tevinter, a sword, and a riddle game meant to test a pilgrim’s beliefs…he frowned a little studying the ghostly visage whose face he could not quite make out but whose eyes stayed on him.

“Mercy,” he answered at last.

“Yes,” the ghost sounded almost relieved, “I could not bear the sight of Andraste’s suffering, and mercy bade me end her life. I am the penitent sinner, who shows compassion as he hopes compassion will be shown to him.”

“Hessarian,” Falcon glanced to the others. “Or at least something meant to symbolize him. The others, they’re from Andraste’s life as well, I think. Come on, let’s get the rest of these answered.”

He and Alistair had grown up under the Chantry’s wing whilst Leliana had spent time as a sister. Between the three of them the answers were easy enough.

As the last of the spirits – _wraiths maybe_? – departed, abandoning the form of Shartan to unseal the door, and cast it open, they all stilled simultaneously.

“Duncan?” Alistair’s voice was barely a whisper as he hurried forward.

Falcon followed warily – but it wasn’t _Duncan_ he saw. A glance to the two rogues proved a suspicion: Leliana’s brows had furrowed with recognition. Zevran’s face had paled, his eyes sliding guiltily away from whoever he saw his hands closed into tight fists.

Those that they had failed waited them.

A woman dressed in the robes of a Circle healer looked up into the passive face of Andraste, a long black braid pulled over her shoulder.

Stepping across the threshold beyond the room he tried to smile in greeting to the facsimile. Tried to ignore the stab of pain in his heart at seeing their face again after so long.

“Took you long enough,” Solona’s brown eyes danced with laughter so achingly familiar he had to stop himself from throwing his arms around her.

He stared, his mouth a little open but words not quite forming yet.

“Don’t look disappointed,” she crossed her arms, raising an imperious eyebrow at him. “It was me or Jowan, but it’s been longer since I saw you.”

She wasn’t real, this wasn’t _her_.

“You’re not Solona,” he said – he was vaguely aware that the others were carrying on their own conversations but his attention slid off them when he tried to listen. The spell maintaining each of their privacies…surprisingly polite for a millennia old trial.

Still it left him nothing but the hollow, empty hurt in his chest to focus on.

“You’re worried I’m a demon stealing my face,” she observed, tilting her head to the side to study him. “I’m not a trick, Falcon. I don’t know what I am but I _am_ Solona, as I am part of the Gauntlet, and…I am part of you.”

He shivered, meeting her eyes.

“Does this mean…” his words fled, he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to the question he _had_ to ask: “Sol…are you gone?”

The woman’s brows furrowed and the expression she wore was heartbreakingly gentle. “I wish I could tell you, Falc.”

When his gaze dropped to the floor she moved forward a step and placed a hand on his cheek gently, her hand was cool but charged with the magic that he felt threaded through this place.

She waited until his eyes were back on her before she smiled at him in the way that was meant to give strength rather than share any joy.

“You’ll worry your Voice if you cry like that, Falc,” she told him.

_Cry_? his brows furrowed and he reached up, touching his cheeks. They were wet….he hadn’t noticed.

“I miss you,” he told her quietly. “I’m-”

“No,” she held up a hand. “Falcon, you wonder if there was something you could have done to keep me safe – taken me to the Tower, or if I might have been the one made a Warden, convinced me to leave Ostagar before that night had fallen.”

He flinched a little at the words, it was one thing to feel them, quite another to hear them from her lips.

 “You’ve always been like that, Falc,” she chided. “You get caught up in your head and all twisted about thinking about all the ways that you should have done something and ‘what if’ you had done things differently.”

“Sol…”

“You’ve taken on a great burden,” her tone was more serious though it stayed gentle and affectionate. “Falcon – you cannot carry the weight of everything alone. Learn to forgive yourself and to let go. Do not blame yourself – not for me, and not for Jowan.” She glanced towards his companions.

She stepped closer again, kissing his cheek, “I like this new family you’ve found. Don’t be as big a pain to them as you always were for me, okay? Let them look out for you, Falcon.”

He jerked forward instinctively as she disappeared and he thought his hand had caught only air until he felt the weight on his palm. A silver amulet with a mirrored back. A soothing sort of magic beneath his fingertips. For a moment he thought he saw Solona’s grin from the back but when he looked closer he saw nothing but his own reflection.

He let out the breath he’d been holding and put the amulet on.

Alistair was quiet, his expression distant but…comforted. Feeling Falcon’s gaze he gave a weak smile, “He said he was proud of me. Did you see him?”

“Solona was waiting for me,” he shook his head. “Are you alright?”

Leliana seemed pensive, the way she had after their encounter with Marjolane, but she was quick to nod this time, tucking something away into her pocket.

Turning he looked to Zevran, the assassin was statue still and looked so fragile as he stared at his open palm.

A silver amulet similar to the one that Solona had left him lay there.

“Zev?” he asked carefully.

Loopy trotted to the assassin, thrusting his nose at the hand and licking it, startling Zev into moving finally. A shuddering breath later as the Antivan gathered his bearings once more and Zevran shook his head, a smile creeping up to replace the lost expression he had been wearing as he stashed the amulet in a pouch.

“Do not worry, my Warden – I am quite unharmed.”

That wasn’t entirely reassuring but right now they should focus on the Gauntlet. Dealing with the effects could wait until they were safe.

Following the right path he shivered as they entered the next room. The echoing chants had finally silenced but this place felt far more dangerous than the other chambers in the Temple had.

Across the room four ghostly figures flared to life. He caught the glimpse of a smirk that he’d seen only in his own reflection as he felt electricity charge the air between them.

He swore, breaking his shadow’s complex casting with a hurried ice spell.

It did not take long for Falcon to feel a great sense of pity for the bandits, cultists and such that had crossed their path.


	30. Zevran

The false Alistair crumpled and disappeared into thin air as his knives sunk into the vulnerable flesh of the man’s neck – mentally the assassin made a note to have a conversation with Alistair about where the weak points in his armor were and get the younger man to supplement his equipment.

As the Templar’s shadow went down he felt rather than saw the surge of magic in the air. The temperature dropped several degrees as the Warden was freed to cast more effectively. The real Alistair was harrying the false mage.

He had no desire to be on the receiving end of the electrical surges that the mage was still sputtering out under the pressure of Alistair’s abilities. The Warden was a dangerous foe and this shadow self of his lacked the Warden’s restraint.

A quick glance confirmed Leliana was engaged in a fight with herself but holding quite well.

There was still one shadow missing – _there_.

“ _Braska_!” he swore and darted forward.

His worry had been the Templar’s abilities not his own. Among the shadows, like an unwelcome thief in the night, towards the mage in the confusion of the fight moved his own shadowed form.

The fight was brutal but quick, finishing in the time it had taken Falcon to cast the powerful ice spell that brought the other two shadows shattering to pieces once he had caught them in it and turning the floor in that part of the room slick with frost.

Zevran panted, watching the shadow disappear before his eyes was…mildly disturbing.

Vaguely he was aware of a pain in his chest and the fact that he should have felt _more_ pain. A glance down confirmed it was bad, the leather of his armor nearly black already.

_I came to Ferelden to kill myself,_ he thought amused – only distantly aware of the Warden’s voice calling his name. _I didn’t think I would have to do it twice._

Protecting someone was not how he’d ever thought to die, he was a Crow. The Crows did not protect – but…he didn’t think he minded that so much.

The darkness that welcomed him felt so…cold.

Was that what death was like? He had hoped that wherever he ended up would at least be warmer – but all he could feel was a deep chill running through his veins and then an agony centered in his chest where the wound was.

He groaned – opening his eyes.

_Ah, so not dead after all_ , he observed, a little amused by the prospect. Ferelden seemed utterly determined to keep him alive just a little longer whether he was prepared to go or not.

 “Hurry, I don’t know how much I can do without killing him,” the Warden was talking to someone behind him. “The Ashes…”

“Hold on,” there was Alistair and the sound of footsteps retreating deeper into the temple.

Falcon’s face was pale, concentration knitting his brows together. He looked ill, like whatever he was doing was hurting him but he kept pushing through.

“My handsome Warden,” his voice was slurred softly around the edges, and it was difficult to get the words out.

Why was it so _cold_?

“Zev,” the look in those eyes reminded him painfully of the way the Warden had sought after him with his gaze that day in the Fade. “Stay still, you’ll be alright.”

That shattered, haunted look that had followed their encounter with Despair that seemed to fade away when he was certain Zev was near. It had continued for days after the nightmares of the Fade – though the Warden had always tried to hide it, kept it to stolen glances.

His back was to a wall, Andraste looming in ghostly white marble above them. Falcon was knelt over his legs, hands pressed against his chest over the injury.

The Antivan’s sluggish brain finally seized on why his veins felt burnt through with ice and why his bones seemed to ache.

It was not that the Warden _looked_ as if he were in pain but that he was. Drawing on mana that he didn’t have to try to heal the wound when he was no healer himself. The fool would kill himself trying to save the assassin.

“Stop,” he forced his heavy limbs to move, one hand on Falcon’s cheek and the other pulling one of the mage’s own hands from his chest. “You’re hurting yourself, Warden.”

“I can’t lose you, not now,” the mage’s voice was small and broken. The way it had been way it had been when Despair had come so close to breaking him in the Fade. Now that he was looking up into the assassin’s face he could see his Warden’s eyes were filled with tears that had yet to fall.

_I should have kissed him before_.

It was a cruel thing to leave the mage with such a memory but he was going to die but this was one regret he needn’t take with him into the Void. They were already so close together that it was an easy thing to press forward even with the wound and catch Falcon’s lips with his own.

Falcon froze, eyes widening in surprise at the kiss, staring at Zevran as the assassin let himself fall back against the stone, a satisfied grin pulling at his lips.

The cold in his limbs seemed to soften and lose its bite – though he still felt chilled to his core – light glowing in the space between them and he coughed harshly once before his breathing steadied. A dull ache in his chest like it was bruised but he was no longer dying… _what_?

Falcon stared at where the injury was – had been – almost as startled, and confused as Zevran himself was.

“It’s healed,” he whispered, touching the scar with careful fingers as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

There would be time enough to puzzle out what had happened later, for now…he moved his hand from Falcon’s cheek to the back of his neck. There was no hurry this time as he drew the other man closer, his other hand finding the mage’s hip and pulling him closer to him.

It was convenient that Falcon had already been practically in his lap while casting the healing spell, now it took no great effort to pull him closer.

He didn’t draw any closer though, the first time had been without permission, and though Falcon had yet to refuse or flee it looked like the mage was still caught between processing and shying away from the desire written in the way his gaze had dropped to study Zevran’s lips and the color rising in those cheeks.

“I would like to kiss you again, my Warden,” he murmured.

Falcon hesitated, like some part of him thought it was a bad idea but he nodded his consent briefly still.

He smiled a little as he pressed a soft kiss to Falcon’s cheek and then the other, a teasing glint in his eye as he left soft pecks on the tip of the mage’s nose and chin. After a soft, almost frustrated sound in the back of the mage’s throat, and he was being kissed, pressed back against the statue.

Falcon’s lips tasted like the air before a storm – _were they always like that or was it the lingering taste of the magic from earlier_?

The first kiss was still stiff, adequate for expressing his need but it was obvious Falcon was shy and not quite sure what he was supposed to do. When he drew back his cheeks were flushed red – both from desire and embarrassment.

Fingers twined in black hair he kissed him again – drawing the mage into the kiss. This time he used lips and tongue and teeth, sucking where he could to draw sensation out. Where the mage’s kiss had been a little clumsy Zevran’s was not.

It was, perhaps, a little unfair to launch such an assault on Falcon knowing how little experience was there but once he’d gotten a taste it hadn’t been _enough_ to let it go at just that kiss. It _hadn’t_ been his intention to push this far but he still smirked at the needy noise that the mage made as he pulled back from his lips, turning his attention to nipping and sucking a line down his jaw and neck.

“Zev,” the desperate tone in the other’s voice made him chuckle – it was just his name and it sounded filthy. A coil of heat pooled in his gut as at the thought of what other sounds he might be able to draw from Falcon given the time and privacy to do so.

For now – as much as he was loathe to do it – they were in a dangerous temple, covered in his blood, and if it really was Andraste’s tomb they were _very_ close to desecrating the place if one of them didn’t stop to think.

“You’re beautiful, my Warden,” he chuckled. “But I think we should stop here, no? At least for the time being.”

It took a few slow, uncertain blinks for Falcon to process why the kissing had stopped, the bright blush creeping up through his cheeks to the points of his ears as he pulled himself stiffly off Zevran’s lap and sat heavily on the ground beside him instead.

“Sorry,” Falcon muttered as he shot up like Zevran had burned him. His eyes going everywhere but the Antivan as he blushed deeply.

He could almost swear he felt the prickling anxiety rising off the mage as he paced away. Did Falcon feel guilty because of his Voice? Surely whoever the man was would not be foolish enough to spurn the mage over lust.

He shivered a little – both from the lingering effects of the mage’s magic in his veins and the disappearance of the body heat from his lap. Sometime _soon_ he would have to have a talk with the Warden and make it clear that he understood they wouldn’t – couldn’t – last, but that they could still enjoy their time together.

Once his ‘golden Voice’ made their way into his Warden’s life he would step aside. There was no need for such guilt.

Exhaustion tugged heavily at him now that the thrill of the battle, and his survival, and kissing the Warden was beginning to fade. Closing his eyes for just a little while seemed suddenly an excellent plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies - I have no idea how to write kisses.


	31. Morrigan

Morrigan winced – even with healing she was sore and felt weak. Her magic was drained and her body still required time and rest to recover.

That her and Zevran’s conditions were why they had made camp for the last three days did little to make her feel less _weak_. She was supposed to be a capable mage – and independent.

She shouldn’t have to rely on these people for her own survival.

“Hungry?” Falcon asked – there was a weary edge around him, as there was around every member of their little party. Even the dog who’d decided snuggling against Zevran was the best use of his time had seemed worn out.

“No,” she accepted the bowl none the less, suspicion clear on her face: “Who made this?”

“I did but Sten and Zev were sitting there ‘supervising’ the entire time,” he reassured her. “Apparently, I’m trusted to lead us against an Archdemon but not rabbit stew.”

She genuinely laughed, relaxing a little. She wasn’t sure she trusted him entirely but she liked Falcon. The first person she’d ever really considered if maybe there was someone she should consider a friend.

“…will you stay to talk?” she asked.

Tilting his head to the side the mage settled cross legged in the mouth of her tent, the flaps pulled open so that she could see the goings-on in the camp.

 “Your decision – regarding Mother. Have you made it – will you help me?”

The younger mage frowned a little, eyes on her for a long moment before he sighed, “I will – it doesn’t feel entirely right given all she did for Alistair and I but I’ve lost enough friends this year already. I don’t want to lose you if there was something I could do.”

“…thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet – she could just decide to swat us like bugs and then you’ll be on your own against her anyways. Whatever Flemeth wants a set of gullible, clueless Wardens running around Ferelden for she could probably just take some from Orlais or the Marches instead.”

Guilt pricked at her chest – the ritual, and what it would entail – was a secret that sat heavy on her chest. Falcon was more than half in love with someone else and Alistair hated her.

Neither would willingly enter such a pact with her.

She hated that the Warden’s influence on her was strong enough that she even felt guilt over it – it _had_ to be done, and she had to keep it a secret or else they might find a way to refuse her aid when the time came, _if_ they even believed her. She would rather betray the fragile trust that lay between her and the Warden than to see the mage destroyed by the Archdemon’s soul.

“I believe you are capable of retrieving her true grimoire at least.”

“Retrieving impossible items that may or may not exist from dangerous places _is_ becoming a specialty of ours.”

She smiled despite herself, but let silence fall comfortably between the two of them as she ate quietly. Falcon’s cooking had been steadily improving under the tutelage of those in their little party that knew their way around food.

The mage turned his gaze out to the camp and his eyes instinctively caught on Zevran as the assassin huddled up in his blankets like an old woman. The Antivan turned a pair of finely made boots over in his hands that had been quietly left outside his tent that morning.

As if sensing the mage’s gaze the Antivan looked up and flashed a grin – which was returned as a shy smiled before Falcon’s gaze dropped away, looking troubled.

“Morrigan…about Voices, what do you know?” the other’s voice was soft, his fingers playing nervously with the tangle of pendants forming at his throat – the chain from the amulet gifted by the Gauntlet and the string from bird and ring twisted together.

A memory of green eyes and the agony of the Taint as it tore away the other half of her bond pulled a sharp frown to her lips and the glitter of a glare to her eyes.

Zevran had been with them long enough that the curiosity that might have formed the basis of the question if asked earlier had become something… _else_. More like fear, and it was enough that Falcon’s long held respect and silence regarding her own private grief was no longer enough.

“Does your precious Circle not teach you?” she narrowed her eyes at him, tone imperious as she tried, and failed, to keep the venom she’d felt at the question from seeping into her words.

He flashed her a look, part annoyed because she knew very well his education in the area would be limited and part apologetic, “You know they don’t. We’re taught that the ache in our chest is meant to be filled with the Maker and his Andraste.”

“Mother called the Voices an echo – a remnant of a time long before, when the world was more filled with magic,” she answered slowly. “They mean nothing – you can fall in love with another, you can stand strong as a mage without them. No true mage needs another to shield them if they are strong and cunning. Tis but a pretty bauble created by accident, not true happiness nor any such promise.”

Her heart ached as she repeated her mother’s lesson – she knew there had been truth in Flemeth’s words but her heart had always whispered a different truth in the music that sang across the Fade as dreams of forest hunts.

“I wonder how much of that was but a lie meant to keep me quietly at her side,” Morrigan shook her head. “Not that Theron would have desired such a bond with me – he was Dalish and very proud.”

That got a snort, “Morrigan, any man that would reject you on the basis of your race is too stupid to deserve you.”

The compliment brought a faint smile to her lips – it was nice to hear even if she wasn’t sure she believed it.

“Perhaps,” she agreed.

“…do you know how the bonding works?”

Morrigan shook her head: “It was not part of what Mother deemed necessary for me to learn. I know that it will strengthen your connection to your magic and it creates the illusion that your magic has grown stronger when it is your _control_ that has. You needn’t bond to achieve that control but it makes it safer to go so deep without risk of calling demons to yourself.”

Apologetically she added, “Perhaps you should consult your fellow Circle mage?”

“…I think I’ll go find another dragon and feed myself to it instead,” he decided grimly. “She’s a proper Chantry-approved mage, she wouldn’t understand…”

He trailed off – his thoughts doubtlessly lingering on the partial bond that whatever had happened on the mountain top had opened.

Falcon’s magic should have killed the assassin, shaped towards healing or not. Shivering for three days straight no matter how Zevran tried to get warm was a small price to pay.

The sole explanation she had arrived to was that in his desperation to save his Voice Falcon had somehow formed the first delicate threads of their bond.

“It will be more difficult to resist now that you both feel the pull,” Morrigan observed - what Zevran was to their leader was one of the worst kept secrets among them. At least half the party had guessed already, and Falcon didn't correct the assumption. It was only that Zevran seemed to be in a sort of stubborn denial of the obvious truth that kept it a secret at all. “If you truly don’t want to bond with him you should send him away. He is not so unskilled that his Crows would catch him as simply as he claims they would.”

“I wish it were that simple. Thank you for talking to me, Morrigan,” Falcon rose to his feet and ducked out of the tent, whistling for his hound as he walked towards the edge of the camp.

Ostensibly his departure was to make sure nothing dangerous had entered the area and to check the traps that Sten had set for prey. She suspected it was so that he did not have to face the questions and worried furrow that were written on Zevran’s expression.

Falcon was strong – the Warden on whom the hopes of Ferelden’s future so delicately teetered.

If Zevran and the fledgling bond became too great a liability though would he do what was necessary? Would he permit any of them to do so?

Gold eyes drifted to where the assassin was sitting – a cut made now, though brutal and painful might still heal. The road was dangerous enough…

The ache in her heart that still echoed with Theron’s name stayed her mind. Could she really condemn the closest one she had to a friend to the cold silence and the whispers that filled her dreams since the Blight had claimed her own Voice?


	32. Falcon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya!  
> So getting this chapter done and posted was a birthday present to myself. For some reason this one was a monster to try and get going. Hoping the next one will be easier to write. ^^'
> 
> Thanks for your patience in waiting for this update! :)

“I don’t _want_ to be king,” Alistair’s voice was half pleading, half whine and more than a little bit tired. “Surely there’s someone else, _anyone_ else who might challenge?”

Teagan frowned a little, actually putting some thought into it, “Perhaps if Fergus Cousland could be found?”

“Unlikely. The Cousland boy was at Ostagar and the girl doubtlessly was killed along with Eleanor and Bryce,” Eamon’s frown at his brother was harsh enough that it made the magic thrumming in his own veins resemble a summer day.

Perhaps he was simply imagining it but there was quite a bit of the groundwork for this attempted coup _already_ laid down. As if Arl Eamon had been planning it for a time, and had had a spare heir in his back pocket. There was something a little too quick about his assurances that Alistair would have _trusted advisors_ until he could learn the role.

“Is there really _no_ one else?” Alistair’s plea sounded like it was partially aimed at Andraste herself.

The mage rubbed as his temple lightly, trying to will away the headache that had been steadily building since the mid-day meal, but watched the Arl’s exchange with his brother-Warden carefully as the man attempted to placate Alistair’s concerns.

There was little either Warden could actually contribute to the discussions. Eamon’s closest allies – geographically – had been in and out of Redcliffe all day and messengers and birds had been sent out to those not within riding distance.

If Alistair didn’t wish to be king he would do his best to make sure that the crown was not made into _his_ cage. His friend deserved better than to have Ferelden thrust upon him, but he didn’t know if there would be a way to avoid that outcome.

There were few people left in Ferelden that the Landsmeet _might_ rally behind. The elimination of the Couslands by Rendon Howe in the North – by all accounts _before_ the Ostagar nightmare – meant that the only other teyrn in Ferelden, besides Loghain himself, was no longer a rival. If Fergus Cousland was discovered he might be convinced to vie for the Crown but it would be nearly as slippery a claim as the one that the Guerrin’s might pose on their own.

Teagan caught his eye and shot him a sympathetic smile. The Bann was more likeable than his elder brother, if nothing else. Or at least less political. Or he at least _cared_ about what Al wanted and in this situation that was worth a _lot_ in Falcon’s ledger.

 “Perhaps this can wait until tomorrow, brother?” Teagan spoke up, interrupting Eamon’s arguments regarding Alistair’s candidacy and the importance of Calenhad’s bloodline. “The Wardens have yet to finish recovering from their journey to find the Urn, and it is nearly supper time, I should think.”

The Arl frowned a little before looking at the pair. Alistair and Falcon both looked travel-worn despite a night’s rest in more comfortable quarters, baths and a few decent meals on his hospitality.

“Perhaps you are right,” he relented.

It bothered Falcon a little – he hated to admit that Jowan’s teasing regarding his vanity did have _some_ merit. He disliked how utterly _exhausted_ he’d looked in the mirror that morning, and somehow after a full night’s rest – or, well, a nearly full night’s thanks to _someone’s_ rather vivid dreaming – he somehow felt more tired than before and he would have sworn the bags had gotten darker under his eyes, not lighter.

Alistair still had the weary edge that had dogged their whole party since their departure from the mountains around Haven. The sag in his shoulders and the fact that he was meeting the Arl with open disagreement rather than jokes about his lack of suitability was enough of a give-away.

If this Blight lasted much longer all two of Ferelden’s Wardens were going to go grey before they reached their twentieth birthdays. _If_ either of them reached that birthday. There was still a good chance that they’d die some horrible, painful deaths.

“Very well, we’ll continue this discussion tomorrow, Alistair,” Eamon announced.

“ _Joy_ ,” Alistair muttered under his breath, leaving the study to find somewhere to sulk. Probably the kitchens or the cheese larder.

Falcon stood from his chair stiffly – he’d been still for too long – and pat his leg, signaling Loopy to join him in leaving. He felt a little guilty for the Mabari, he’d have to make sure that he went with someone else in the morning if it really was to be another day of meetings.

“Warden?” Eamon’s voice stopped him short.

“Yes, my lord?” Personal dislike of Eamon aside they truly couldn’t afford to offend the Guerrin’s anymore than Jowan’s mysterious escape already had.

The man studied him, “Talk to Alistair, he trusts your opinion and will follow your advice. You must know that this is what is best for him as well as Ferelden.”

“I will do what is best for Ferelden,” the mage hedged, before choosing to echo Duncan: “My duty is to stop this Blight as soon as we can, I will do what is necessary to achieve that.”

Eamon nodded faintly, and Falcon slipped from the study, dog on his heels.

There had been _one_ advantage to spending the day witnessing the headache that controlling nobility was: he’d had very little time to consider the consequences of his Voice. Now freed from the Arl’s company his mind inevitable wandered away from the concerns he’d have preferred it be occupied with – the Civil War, a Blight, the treaties, planning to murder Morrigan’s mother at her request.

He had managed to avoid spending too much time with the assassin since Haven. There were questions he didn’t know how to answer – no, that wasn’t true. The answer was simple enough ‘You’re my Voice, and I’m definitely in love with you too. I really want to kiss you again and finish what we-

His thoughts were cut off as he realized that the hall towards the room he’d been given wasn’t empty. There reclined against the wall was the object of his affections and frustrations. He froze in step, watching as Zev unfolded himself and came towards him, that easy, relaxed gait that reminded him a little too much of a cat getting ready to pounce.

A soft click of his tongue, as amber colored eyes ran over the mage in a way that made it very difficult to breath – Falcon dropping his gaze and blushing hard… _where was Loopy_? Damn match-making dog had abandoned him.

There was a playful air to the assassin, the lines sounded a little rehearsed – he wouldn’t be surprised if they _were_ but they worked: “Look at you. Your weary stance, the dark circles under your eyes. Poor man, all this constant travel and all the heroics have gotten to you. Do you know what you need?”

Maker, he was in trouble now wasn’t he?


	33. Zevran

Zevran Arainai liked to consider himself a man of some talent when it came to the art of seduction. He’d always been very successful and the only complaints had ever come from Taliesin – whose hobby it was to complain anyways so that hardly counted, no?

The assassin had had his share of falling in love. Twice before this time he’d found his affections altogether stolen away by a person.

Wild, caged Isabela had been the first. He remembered the moment that he heard Bela’s laugh in the dockside market and found himself staring so long that a rather impetuous gull had stolen his lunch from him. A moment stolen from her husband’s watchful gaze she had been examining some pretty trinkets on display.

She had always been fierce in her independence even before Zevran had taught her how to use a blade and gifted her his own. Even with all his flirtations he’d not recognized the feeling that had bloomed in his heart – mistaken it for simple friendship under the guise of the ease of their companionship.

Until he’d stood on the docks watching a ship sail away, a key heavy in his hand and felt as if he could drown in loneliness. Alas, she was free and he would never choose to cage her with his feelings even where he brave enough to have spoken the words aloud.

Rinna had been different. At first he’d found the pretty dark haired girl frustrating. She was beautiful – her features made fine by her mixed elven blood – and she could move like shadows, deadly and graceful. And irritating. Or so he had thought when the _maestro_ had set her on the same team as he and Taliesin.

They’d been covered in blood from a hard fight when he looked up at her and his breath was stolen away. After that kiss he did not find her quite so irritating any longer. He loved her but that was not the way of the Crows – they and Taliesin shared a bed for some years and not once did any dare speak of _love_ even if it was written so clearly in Zevran’s eyes that it was no secret to any who knew him.

This third time was perhaps most frustrating. And most puzzling was that he could not recall when it had happened.

Sitting on the cliff sharing the drink was when he’d decided it would be entertaining and rather pleasurable to seduce the other elf. But he hadn’t thought himself in _love_ then…curious was more apt.

No longer did he constantly entertain thoughts of his own death. Often still – but such things took time to heal, no? Rinna’s ghost had not haunted his dreams since he’d woken in the Fade to find his Grey Warden curled in bed beside him – still, though, he could find himself clouds drift upon the wind and find himself thinking _Ah, Rinna would have thought that one beautiful_ and the guilt, the sorrow, would twist into his heart like knife.

In those painful moments he often found himself searching for the Warden. The man had given him a second chance at life, had saved him – surely it was not unusual to look to him as a reminder that even with the heavy sin he bore that he still had a chance?

And there was something rather attractive with the way that a few sly smirks and well placed words could reduce a rather intelligent mage into a crimson stutter. No one could truly resist teasing in such a circumstance, no?

Then Haven happened.

He’d kissed the Warden because he thought he was dying, because he wanted nothing more than to finally taste those lips, even should they be salty from undeserved tears. The last of his life was fading from him even as his Warden’s failing magic tried to hold him back from the beyond. There had been no harm in admitting the truth his heart had known –

He was in love with Falcon.

Instead of finding death though the magic streaming between them had surged with power and he had healed – it had left him stripped of his warmth and shivering for days but it had healed him from a wound that ought to have granted him the end he’d come to Ferelden to find.

He had wished to take Falcon to bed as soon as he had been on his feet again – his sleeping mind had certainly spent enough time entertaining such ideas. The mage had suddenly become far more difficult to get a moment in private with however.

The battered state of their company had provided plenty of reasons for the mage to keep busy, alas. Still, he could not shake the feeling that some worry was plaguing his Warden since the Temple – and that that was the source of the mage’s sudden avoidance.

Or things were far simpler.

Zevran knew that the Warden wanted him – hiding fear and sorrow and anger was something that his Warden was practiced at in that cold tower the mages had. Desire was something the younger man had not yet learned to mask so effectively. Still, what had happened in that temple was…intense.

Perhaps too intense for a first kiss – he should not be overly surprised at the skittish behavior while the younger man figured it out. Even without the added complications of Voices.

And so he had given the Grey Warden the space he seemed to desire, Redcliffe had not been so far off. A bed made a more comfortable place for the sort of plans he had than a sleeping roll, after all.

With the Arl awake preparations for truly facing Loghain in Ferelden politics began in earnest and Eamon wasted no time in pulling the Wardens both into it. The Wardens both had been kept in council with the Arl for most of the day, which had given him time to gather a few necessities if he intended to enact his plan.

Zevran breathed out hearing soft footsteps and the soft click of claws on stone entering the hall that the Warden’s room was in. Peeling away from the walls and shadows he smiled to see that it indeed Falcon and the dog.

The dog spotted him first, wagging a stubby tail at him and a moment later the mage had come to a full stop – frozen almost as if one of the many victims that felt to the Warden’s favorite ice spell. Nerves. The mabari disappeared back around the corner, likely to find the kitchens – that dog _far_ too intelligent for anyone’s good.

The assassin could sympathize – despite all his experience he could feel his stomach knot some as he approached the mage. Not that he would ever let his own nervousness _show_.

His amber gaze to slid over the Warden appreciatively - even in the rather shapeless blue-gray mage’s robe he’d found the black haired elf was an attractive man.

Clicking his tongue softly as he reached for the lines that that he had been mentally rehearsing since breakfast. They were cheesy and terrible even to his own ears but with Falcon already acting the part of a skittish calf if they fell flat he would at least get a smile instead.

“Look at you. Your weary stance, the dark circles under your eyes. Poor man, all this constant travel and all the heroics have gotten to you. Do you know what you need?”

As it was he didn’t get that smile, but a nervous little gulp as the mage’s own eyes swept over Zevran, a thousand frantic, nervous, thoughts racing behind that blue gaze.

“A, uh, good night’s rest?”

He hummed considering – it was certainly true that Falcon required more of those. Between the Taint and whatever troubles haunted his own dreams it seemed that those were a rare commodity. Still, a playful glint in his eye he grinned to the mage: “I’m thinking more drastic measures are called for, in fact.”

Falcon’s ears were already red all the way to their points and his cheeks crimson – and Zev didn’t miss the way his throat bobbed with a nervous little swallow.

“My thought is this: We retire to my room and I show you the sort of massage skills that one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse.”

 “Are you suggesting what I think?” he asked in a tight voice, trying to recollect his thoughts. He could practically feel the want rolling off of the mage, and there was something rather flattering about the way that a man who spent so much time in his head seemed to have gotten a bit lost on the way to his thoughts.

Especially as Zevran was _fairly_ certain that the implications had been obvious even to someone as inexperienced in the area as the Warden.

Unable to keep the amusement entirely at bay he smiled to the mage, stepping closer now, and was glad to see that Falcon didn’t retreat from him. He ghosted his fingers down the mage’s arm before resting them lightly on his wrist, a thrill going up his arm at being allowed the touch.

He lifted his gaze back to Falcon’s, his voice low and threaded with laughter: “If you mean to ask whether or not there might be more than a massage involved, allow me simply to say that you won’t be disappointed with _any_ of the techniques I’ve picked up over the years.”

He could feel the pull between them, but it was the mage who snapped first, leaning up to kiss him while Zev tightened his grip on the wrist, using it to pull him in close and moved his other hand to cradle Falcon’s head.

It was a needy sort of kiss, and it didn’t take long for Falcon’s hands to be twined into his shirt. He felt as if his blood was singing –

Then suddenly Falcon jerked away, and Zev loosened his grip immediately seeing the fear laced in his expression – something was wrong, and he had his confirmation that the Warden was afraid…

“Zev…I,” the mage’s words seemed to choke him, his gaze wouldn’t meet his now. “I don’t know about this…”

Carefully he let his hold on the mage slip away – not going to hold him in place – his hand moving to the other’s chin to make him look up into his gaze so he could try and see what was wrong. Guilt as heavy as the fear – was this about his Voice?

“What is there to fear, my Grey Warden?” he asked, “You deserve a little fun, do you not?”

He didn’t expect the words to hurt but he saw the pain flash through the other’s eyes. There was the cold, heavy fear knotting his stomach once again, whatever this was it was more than simple inexperience or nerves.

“There’s, I – Maker, I’m so sorry, Zev.” Tears had begun to well in his eyes as he let the other drop his chin again to hide the expression.

The mage took a step backwards, away from Zevran, even though as if it felt like it physically hurt to  do so and then another before he turned and ran.

Zevran let him go.

Confusion and hurt and guilt tearing through his thoughts – what had gone wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. So.   
> I had one hell of a summer (and not in the good way, this summer really sucked). But I'm back and I'm working on Frost Flowers again. I'm in classes again so I'll be a bit slow about updating due to school work but I am looking forward to the writing for ya'll more regularly again.
> 
> I just wanted to thank all of ya'll for your patience, it means the world to me. And thank you for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated and adored. :)
> 
> Oh, and if you ever want to chat you can find me over at tumblr at aly-the-writer!


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